XCom
by gohkm
Summary: Series based on the popular computer game, from XCom's humble beginnings to its conclusion. All comments and suggestions are welcome and appreciated.
1. In The Beginning

Siberia, Land of Eternal Cold. Icy, freezing winds whipping along at better than 70 miles per hour. Add that to an ambient temperature averaging around negative ten or twenty, and one had prime conditions for frostbite and hypothermia. Still, a job was a job. 

Ivan Romanov shifted uncomfortably. Even wrapped snugly in the fur-linked jacket, plus four layers underneath and thermals, he was chilled to the bone. The chunky AK-74 assault rifle he held had been greased to work in the hostile environment, its thirty round magazine locked in place and the safety off. His finger was light on the snow trigger, ready to send a hail of hot lead towards unfortunate recipients.

In this case, said recipients were ... unknown hostiles. Merely hours ago, Base Commander Sergey Andreiyevich had called for a meeting. Severe-looking outsiders in suits had attended the meeting. They wanted volunteers for a new task force. Better pay, food and equipment were promised, although it was all going to be under a veil of secrecy. What the heck, thought Ivan at that time, Rodina Russia had been going to hell since the 80s. For a professional soldier, things were even worse. 

So Ivan had signed on.

The expected red tape had been cut through with ruthless efficiency for his transfer; Ivan had been informed practically on the spot that transportation to the new task force base would be provided within the next half a day or so. The suits had pleasantly thanked everyone who attended, and had left one of their own as a liaison officer, a Colonel Wolf, someone who spoke perfect Russian.

Standing slightly shy of six feet, with a shock of unruly hair that hung down over his forehead, Wolf could only be described as average in appearance. He did not look exceptionally muscular, did not appear to have any birthmarks, and simply did not speak a lot; he even refused to answer where he had learnt his Russian. If left in a crowd, he would quite easily be absorbed and blend in. 

A dangerous trait, Ivan thought. A dangerous trait, but useful. 

Left unspoken was the word, "assassin".

Uniforms had been left with the Colonel, standard issue military fatigues that armies around the world used. Each uniform bore a single insignia and nothing else - a pair of silvery collar pins, shaped like X's. 

Even as the few soldiers were shrugging into their new uniforms, things went to hell in a hurry.

The proximity alarms had sounded, the klaxons wailing like banshees. Something had landed close to the airbase. But what?

Wolf had taken charge immediately. Surprisingly, even Commander Andreiyevich had yielded control to him. He had merely nodded acquiesce when the Colonel requested a patrol of a half-dozen men to investigate. The (un)lucky few consisted of the four transfers and two more base personnel, including a heavy weapons expert.

They had trudged out into the freezing day, and slogged through two kilometers worth of ice and snow. The small band had mostly AK-74 assault rifles, and a single AK-74 with an underslung 6GD15 grenade launcher wielded by the aforementioned heavy weapons specialist. A not-inconsiderable amount of firepower, by any military standard. Wolf had produced a Heckler and Koch 4.7mm G11 from somewhere, along with a rather surprising weapon - a katana, the straight-bladed sword used by samurais from ancient Japan. Its handle was ivory, carved in the likeness of an oriental dragon.

"Where did you get that?" Ivan had ventured to ask.

The Colonel had merely smiled at Ivan, a smile so sad and bleak that it almost broke Ivan's heart. He had caressed the hilt of the sword, and spoken in a soft voice tinged with regret, "Somebody gave it to me."

Wolf would say no more.

There! A glow from up ahead. And a strange, box-shaped ... craft?

Ivan frowned. Surely his eyes must be lying! Something like that must have all the aerodynamics of a block of wood. It gleamed in the dull afternoon sun, an eerie silver that blended in beautifully with the icebound landscape. The alien metal appeared to glisten wetly. 

The men glanced uncertainly at each other even as Wolf swore softly under his breath.

Silent now, the Colonel dictated two pairs of men to flank right and left. He motioned to Ivan and another trooper, Pieter, to follow him and provide covering fire. As soon as the flanking teams were in place, Wolf set off with Ivan and Pieter in tow.

At a mere twenty meters from the object, Wolf signaled all safeties off. He signed Ivan and Pieter to stay put, while he went prone and crawled up to the alien craft. Ivan could not help but admire the man; it was difficult to move about when swathed in so many layers of clothing, but Wolf made it look all natural. 

So here he was, the AK-74 braced against his shoulder for a quick burst. Similarly, Pieter had raised his weapon, ready to fire. The Colonel had reached the craft by now. He crouched down by its side, apparently listening for ... something. 

That something came in a burst of green fire and a scream.

Ilych! Ivan recognized the agonized shout. It had come from the left flanking team. Almost immediately, the harsh rattle of autofire sounded above the howl of the wind. Startled, but still ready, Ivan dared to spare a glimpse at Ilych's position. 

The Siberian landscape here was flat, with hardly any cover, hence it was easy to spot what Ilych's team was firing at. A gray, bulbous head jutted out from the ground, unexpectedly difficult to spot if the flash of gunfire and eldritch energy had not given away its position.

Even as he watched, a second blast of the green fire consumed Ilych's head, catapulting the carcass some ten feet from the sheer impact. The other man, Sergei, Ivan recognized, had managed to drop prone and was raking the ... creature's position with huge 7.62mm rounds. Ignoring the hail of bullets striking the ice around it, the gray one took aim again and fired. In a stunning display of marksmanship, the creature unleashed a bolt of the ravening energy that caught Sergei's AK-74 in the muzzle. Without slowing down, the blast continued up the AK-74, destroying the weapon and tearing off Sergei's arm in the process.

As Sergei's lifeblood stained the ground red, training took over. 

Knowing that Pieter had also seen all this, Ivan spoke calmly.

"Target and fire at will."

Gunfire again merged with the shrieking wind. 7.62mm rounds cratered the gray one, piercing its flesh. The bullets slammed into the creature with enough force to lift it completely off its feet and send it tumbling backwards. Great gouts of alien blood stained the ice an eerie green. 

There was hardly time to register the victory. 

The minute the fighting had started, a hidden door had opened in the alien craft's side - the side the Colonel was crouching next to. Ivan had time to register a _down_ from the Colonel and drop prone before a veritable storm of green power flashed over his head. Desperately rolling to avoid the artificial lightning that was even now descending, Ivan cursed savagely as he fetched up against a particularly unforgiving rock. The loud crack of Pieter's rifle gave him time enough to get back into a crouch to prepare his own attack.

The sight took his breath away. More of the gray ones were silhouetted against the lit interior of the craft. Ivan counted at least four. Pieter had managed to pot one clean in its distended forehead, and the bullet exploded its head like an over-ripe tomato. Even as he watched, the Colonel hazarded a dash in front of the deadly alien fire. The G11 spat out its case-less rounds in an equally deadly hail.

The Heckler and Koch 4.7mm G11 was unique among weapons. Holding all of 45 rounds in its extended magazine, the first thing anyone noticed about it was its weight. Capable of firing single shots or 3-round bursts, it boasted a superbly high rate of cyclic fire. This meant that by the time the third bullet had left the barrel, the recoil had barely begun to travel up the weapon's stock. All this translated into an incredibly high accuracy even while firing in burst mode.

The first three round blast tagged one alien in the center of its chest, and it crumpled to the ground. Wolf walked his fire into the next creature, taking it in the shoulder and sending it crashing into its neighbour. As they fell to the ground in a heap, Wolf dropped the G11 and drew his katana. He leapt forward, keeping the blade angled towards the ground close to his hip, then sweeping it upwards. The stroke clove open the uninjured creature from navel to throat, spilling its innards to the craft floor in a greasy mess. Reversing the blow, Wolf pinned the other one to the ground.

Ivan motioned Pieter towards the craft, and they both sprinted towards it. Wolf was calmly wiping the blood off his katana, ignoring the alien slowly bleeding to death on the floor. He looked up at them and said, "There's one more - typical crew of six."

Ivan gulped and was about to ask what were they up against, when the remaining two members of the patrol came crashing through as well. Heavy weapons specialist Andrei looked completely shell-shocked. Leon was barely holding on to his sanity, his eyes wild and darting about. 

"What was that?" Andrei gasped out. 

"You mean, what is this?" Wolf sheathed the katana and kicked contemptuously at the still-bleeding form. It gave a low moan of pain and tried to squirm weakly away. 

Unable to bear the sight of even an alien creature suffering thus, Ivan placed his AK-74 against its skull and pulled the trigger once. Ichor burst from the shattered skull. He looked the Wolf, his eyes cold and hard.

It did not seem to bother the Colonel.

Wolf retrieved his G11, and used it to point at the dead gray ones around them.

"Those who signed up - I know you didn't, Leon - welcome to the Extraterrestrial Combat Unit. Otherwise known as X-Com. I wished I could have given you a warmer welcome, but I guess this is all the welcome you're going to have.

"Earth has been in contact with aliens for a long time. Read about all those kidnappings and such? Well, they're real. We've been trying to stop them for a long while, but it's only recently that our technological advances have allowed us to even marginally come close to catching them. As you have seen, we're completely outgunned. Probably outnumbered, as well.

"It's a war out there; it's Humanity against them. So welcome to the war, fellows. Hope you don't buy it without taking at least one of them with you."

With that, Wolf fished a cigarette out from somewhere and lit it.

They had gone hunting the last alien after that. Sectoids, Wolf called them. They had found the last one cowering nearby. It was holding some kind of alien pistol, which it fired as it charged suicidally. The fire team had cut it apart with their AK-74s with little effort.

Upon the return to base, Leon had been taken away for debriefing by Commander Andreiyevich himself. Ivan wondered what would become of him. The rest of them gathered together in a small interrogation room.

Wolf heaved a sigh. 

"Looks like I've got one less man to work with, now."

He shook himself then.

"Alright, enough of this. I must be getting old. The Skyranger will be here in another half and hour or so. Pack up your stuff and then we will get you settled in your new home."

Andrei looked up at Wolf with tear streaks down his cheeks.

"Can I ... get ... out ..."

The Colonel looked at him with an unreadable expression. His face softened for a moment, as if he understood what Andrei was going through. Ivan certainly could.

"God have mercy on you."

The Colonel pulled out something and laid it on the table then. Ivan recognized the matt black finish of a Glock pistol. Wordlessly, Andrei picked up the weapon and stared at it. 

"Let's go." The Colonel turned and left.

Half an hour later, standing on the tarmac of the landing strip, Ivan gazed at the Skyranger in awe. It represented the pinnacle of modern troop transport technology, filled with everything from automatic tracking systems to supersonic-capable engines. The aging C-130 transports Ivan had flown in before could not compare with this marvel.

As the three of them boarded the Skyranger, a single shot ran out.

"Goodbye, Andrei." Ivan whispered into the cold night.


	2. First Blood

It was a surprisingly short ride down to the top-secret X-Com installation. Situated mostly underground on a remote island somewhere in the Pacific, the interior of the Skyranger was eerily quiet as the world screamed past at a dizzying rate. The product of years of theorizing and a hefty amount of money, the Skyranger was a suborbital aircraft. It skimmed through the reduced atmosphere at an altitude just before entering space. The reduced friction and drag allowed the Skyranger incredible speeds. Upon dropping back down into lower atmospheric conditions, the ramjet engines would come back on-line.

Unfortunately, such speed comes with a high premium; the ramjet engines were non-functional at suborbital altitudes, and the Skyranger was forced to burn rocket fuel as a result. That in itself was expensive, but adding to the fact that the rocket fuel tanks were internal rather than externally mounted pods ...

A potentially explosive mode of transport.

It did not make Ivan feel any better, riding on top of what was literally a flying missile. The craft was equipped with a modern type of explosion containment device, which would direct the majority of the force of the blast away from its fragile cargo compartment, and had been tested to redirect a blast equivalent to over a hundred kilos of TNT. Still, the effects on the occupants of the craft would surely not be conducive to health.

Aforementioned cargo compartment in this case housed Ivan, Pieter, and their assorted belongings between them. With most of the craft devoted to high-tech electronics and strange thingamajigs, it was fairly cramped. Enough to squeeze in slightly more than a dozen troopers, Ivan estimated, and a limited amount of equipment. They were definitely going into battle without SA-7 rocket launchers, Pieter had added ruefully.

The Colonel was sitting up front, with the pilot and navigator. Too good to sit with the grunts, Ivan had recalled saying rather bitterly. Their first encounter with aliens had not been pleasant, and Ivan had lost good friends because of it.

Still, they had all known the risks when they had signed on with the armed forces. Death was inevitable in life, even more so in battle, and his friends just had to go home early. It did not feel any better to know that he had survived whereas they had died, but Ivan was a soldier, and so he resolutely put it aside in his head. He gazed out of small window next to him, allowing the murky darkness of pseudo-space to lull him into a soothing trance.

All too soon, the Skyranger plummeted sickeningly back into the lower atmosphere. Ivan's stomach flipped as he desperately grabbed on to the safety harness. The quiet in the compartment was replaced by the nauseatingly loud hum of the ramjets kicking in, and the resultant lurch knocked him back deep in the cushioned seat. G-forces kept him there as the Skyranger accelerated rapidly to drop below radar coverage.

A glance at Pieter showed that he was not faring too well, either. Pieter flashed him a weak grin as he visibly gulped.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, the Skyranger was also equipped with VTOL facilities. The ramjets were reversed as they neared their destination, this time gradually slowing down the Skyranger. Thankful for the respite, Ivan managed to keep everything in his stomach in the proper place.

The vertical jets activated a moment later, gently lowering the Skyranger down. A slight bump announced contact with Terra Firma. Ivan gathered enough courage to look out of the window, and all he saw was an expense of lush foliage, and beyond that, golden sand. Emerald-blue water surrounded them.

A mechanical clang, and then they were descending into a vertical shaft.

  


Half an hour later, after a quick welcome by some staff, the two were ushered into the troop barracks. At present, Wolf had explained, X-Com was little more than a tiny research facility. That was about to change, though, since recently, the aliens had begun to get more aggressive. The Earth needed something to fight back with, and X-Com was it.

The research facility-turned-military base boasted a magnificently state-of-the-art collection of laboratories as its central feature. The multisensor laboratories were equipped with no less than three massive T3 Crays, an inordinate amount of computing power at an equally inordinate price. Here, the thirty-strong team of top scientists had puzzled for well over a decade, debating alien purpose and technology.

Alongside the labs was a fully equipped medical facility, complete with trauma team and ICU. Waging war against aliens was a highly hazardous occupation, Wolf had explained, and therefore X-Com had their own medical staff. It was an all too real possibility that wounded squad members might not survive a transfer from a conventional hospital without appropriate facilities to a more advanced medical agency. The need to localize critical equipment was most important to extend the lifespans of the combat team.

On the same level was the fully mechanized and automated workshop, where a team of half a dozen crack engineers laboured to produce the whatever the scientists came up with. Prototypes were already up for a new type of body armour, supposedly stronger than Kevlar, yet of an equal weight. The armour plates would be inserted into special pockets in uniforms, providing good ballistic protection over critical areas.

One level up, the Skyranger-bearing lift came to a halt. The base was equipped with two such hangars, the first housing this particular Skyranger, and the other belonging to the recovery team. They were equipped with two CH-47D Chinooks, massive helicopters capable of moving up to almost fourteen tons of weight at a single time. Recovery would be responsible for salvaging whatever UFOs the X-Com combat team managed to bring down.

Close to the hangars were the crew living quarters. With only about seventy staff on base, this was of a decent size. It was typical military; clean, Spartan, and purely functional. Bunks and lockers, period. They would share the quarters with the rest of the base personnel, split to accommodate both genders. Even the Colonel stayed there.

Traffic through the base was channeled through various security points, each of which was equipped with a 0.5-inch caliber heavy machine gun. Hooked up into a motion-sensor system, each HMG would spray bullets indiscriminately at any moving target once turned on. Of course, the target(s) in question had to have a certain mass in order to be detected.

There were also various nasty surprises around, including inactive anti-personnel mines that could be remotely armed or detonated, as well as some more old-fashioned traps - spring blades and spikes, for starters. All the security measures would be controlled by the base weapons officers in Command and Control.

Wolf took them around on a quick tour, after stowing away their stuff. The small island was liberally dotted with SAM sites, the automated weapons systems supposed to be able to shoot anything down. Taking them up the central lift to the surface, Wolf pointed out their last-ditch weapon.

A railgun.

Located in the middle of the base radar/communications array, it was basically a sled mounted on top of a motor. It was already loaded with a chunk of depleted uranium the size of a car tire. Upon detection of a hostile craft within its range, the powerful aiming mechanisms would immediately begin orienting the railgun at its target. The sled would be accelerated, via enhanced magnetic fields produced using laser beams, along a rail of about a hundred meters. At the end of that, the sled would come to an abrupt halt, catapulting the depleted uranium slug off. It had been calculated that the slug would achieve supersonic speed in another five millimeters or so after leaving its sled, such was the power of the magnetic catapult. A slug of that mass, at that velocity, would cut a swathe of great destruction through whatever was in its path.

Naturally, in order to achieve this kind of power required a tremendous amount of energy. So much, in fact, that in order to fire the railgun, all available power had to be redirected to the railgun capacitors. It would, in essence, shut down the base completely.

Truly, a last ditch weapon. If the railgun was fired, and failed to destroy its target, the base would be left essentially defenseless save for its personnel. The various automated guns at the security stations would no longer work, unless fired manually. C&C fervently hoped that this would never become necessary.

Around the base, a pattern of sonar buoys had been planted. These would be the early warning system should a sea-based assault be attempted; the buoys had been placed up to two kilometers away. On the island itself, various sensors would provide warning of intruders. Hooked up into the central defense computer were also links to the various GPS satellites, plus a good number of other classified and unclassified military satellites. In essence, X-Com central had an eye over the globe at any given point in time.

  


At dinner that same evening, Ivan and Pieter met the rest of their team.Formed around an augmented ten person squad, the personnel had been culled from military forces all around the world. The squad would have a medic, a heavy weapons specialist, and a close assault specialist, among others. Each squad member would be issued with a rifle and sidearm that they were comfortable with, along with any other specialized equipment that their squad position dictated.

Medic duty went to Dr. Monique Langer, a veteran of several wars, including the Balkans and Gulf wars. She had served as field medical personnel under combat conditions before, and knew how to use her German G3 combat rifle relatively well. Monique was not that good with a pistol, however.

Drake Fallon was squad heavy weapons specialist. He would lug around anything larger than a rifle. He was skilled in various rifles and small arms, knives, and his fists. An unattractive brute at a huge six and half feet, and with equally huge arms to match, Drake came from Delta Force, USA. Drake would be carrying the squad section automatic weapon, or SAW; surprisingly enough, he eschewed the standard US Army M249 for the lighter Heckler and Koch MG36 Light Support Weapon. Drake was hardly one would call a crack shot, but with the kind of firepower he was slinging, he could be slightly on the sloppy side, although that would be most unprofessional of him.

The squad point man was Robert Irving. British-born and British-raised, Robert had originally been with the British SAS, and had also graduated from the US Army Ranger School as a result of joint training. He was just on his way back to Hereford in England after yet another joint training exercise when X-Com had gotten their hands on him. A wiry and toned person, the Englishman had a quiet air of reserve about him. Somewhere along the line, Robert had even found the time to complete a university degree in engineering. He was reputedly better than the legendary U.S. Army 17th Infantry 'Ninja' Lightfighters. Unusually for an European, Robert was a bit of a gun nut; he preferred the French FA-MAS Commando Carbine to the usual British Army SA-88 assault rifle, and had let his superiors know that from the start. He had even brought over his own handgun - an extreme rarity in a country that had strict gun laws.

Close-quarters combat specialist was Mariko Tanaka, from Japan. Barely five and a half feet tall, she had black-belts in four different kinds of martial arts. Her first budo was _shorinji kempo_, having learnt it at the original dojo in the town of Tadotsu, in the Kagawa Prefecture on Shikoku Island, founded by Kaiso. It took most students a full year to achieve their black-belts; Mariko had finished hers in only ten months. In an academy where every student was an expert fighter, that spoke volumes about her ability. Serene and calm, Mariko gazed calmly out at each member of the squad, a rock in the middle of a raging sea.

As befitting his previous assignment, Pieter was demolitions. Ivan wondered what Pieter would get to blow up in X-Com. He drew communications duty, carrying the light but powerful portable HF radio set, together with the field GPS system. The others all belonged to the rank-and-file common to military organizations the world over, forming a generic, but important, core to the team. And because this was a military installation always on alert, everyone carried handguns.

Inside the mess hall, the combat team broke bread with the other engineers and scientists. Some of the brightest graduates from universities around the world were here, and their youth showed. Across the room, laughter broke out as one such young graduate got a cup of cold water dumped over him, courtesy of the very same girl he was trying badly to chat up. Apparently offended, she walked away and left him literally cooling his head. A sheepish shrug later, he strode out of the mess hall after his target.

Ivan sighed briefly. Ah, youth ... they just do not learn quickly enough, _da_?

He returned his attention to Wolf, who was replying to a question just asked by one of the squad. X-Com, Wolf explained, was a very new organization. It was funded by the various governments of the world. The money would disappear under the Black Project heading of every government, and resurface as X-Com funding. However, this was utterly dependent on the performance of X-Com. Should X-Com fail to provide adequate protection for a certain government, it was almost assured that funding from that government would be cut. Politics factored into everything, after all.

The initial base had been built at a staggering cost, the Colonel continued to disclose. Appalled at this price tag, several governments had already drastically sliced their funding, fearing the diversion of revenue to a yet-untested agency. Before operations had began, X-Com was even now in danger of being closed down because it swallowed money like water; of the many billions with which the agency had started with, there was now only a few million left. Thus, it was in the best interest of all parties involved that X-Com start proving their worth.

  


***

  


Deep in space, something moved. Something vast and unimaginably ancient. Deep space probes left in place by someone else picked up this movement, transmitting the data across the vast interstellar distances at speeds Mankind could not even imagine of.

Unlimited by such concepts as particle physics, the data pulsed into the alien receiver on a yet-undiscovered planet outside the Solar System. A quiet hum filled the air, alerting an operator and filling him with dread. The probes had been constructed for solely one reason.

Four-fingered hands flitted across the alien keyboard with unerring precision. A quick glance at monitors confirmed what his instincts told him. The alien tapped the communications device next to one of the display units, and spoke in a voice tinged with fear.

"They are coming."

  


***

  


The alarm klaxon went off with the cry of a thousand howling banshees, shocking Ivan out of peaceful slumber. Fumbling with his uniform, Ivan tried to pull on his boots as well. Pieter was faring no better, it seemed.

His mind raced through the alert drill as his body moved. Report to the armoury to pick up any allocated special weapons, then on to the hangar and immediately board the Skyranger; their 'regular' rifles and sidearms were kept permanently on-board, except when they were due for servicing. Briefing would commence along the way to the mission site.

The armourer was already frantically dishing out combat goodies. He saw Monique grab her heavy field medical kit in one hand and sprint for the Skyranger. Pieter was next, and got a pair of grenades, which he stuffed unceremoniously into his webbing pockets. Ivan reached the counter a moment later and pocketed his own issued grenades. A quick sprint and he was inside the Skyranger.

It had taken all of two minutes.

Wolf was already there, counting heads.

"Weapon check, load and safe."

Ivan parked his behind on his allocated seat and grabbed the AK-74 rifle in the harness next to the seat. Pulled back the bolt, made sure it slid smoothly along the breech. Slammed home a thirty-round magazine of heavy 7.62mm armour-piercing bullets. Clicked the safety on, and jammed the rifle back into the weapon harness. Put on the communications headgear and fastened the throat mike in place. He settled back into place just in time to see Monique re-strap her G3 combat rifle into her own weapon harness.

Wolf finished accounting for all men and tapped the controls that slid rear exit ramp shut. He spoke into his headset microphone to the Skyranger pilots.

"All clear. Time to go."

Insulated from the cacophony of the ramjets shrieking to life outside, Wolf grinned at his crew inside the soundproof transport chamber.

"We got ourselves a live one."

  


Wolf briefed the team as they headed for the target destination. A UFO had been spotted on long-range radar, heading towards the Taiwan. The Taiwanese authorities had swiftly granted X-Com airspace clearance, although they had indicated that they would supply reinforcements if required. The UFO had been lost somewhere over central Taiwan, where the mountainous region provided for bad radar coverage. Military listening posts were being rapidly set up in that region to provide at least a modicum of intelligence.

Within an area which provided for no suitable landing zones, the X-Com team would be forced to make a 'hot-drop'. The Skyranger would slow down its velocity enough so that opening the exit ramp would not cause turbulence to rip the entire craft into pieces. This done, a short static line jump would drop the troopers straight into an environment with the location of hostiles unknown. Pickup would be via helicopter at a landing zone not too far away.

If they all survived.

  


Ivan dropped into a crouch, the hot-drop coming second nature to him. The muzzle of the AK-74 swept the immediate vicinity, his finger light on the trigger. Riding the edge, it was called, so that it required the barest tensing of his finger to fire the weapon.

Although the light temperate forest was not possessed of dense foliage, it was blanketed in the early morning mist. Droplets of cold sweat beaded Ivan's forehead, and the fatigues he wore were no match for the incipient chill. It would warm up as the day advanced, but until then, the fog would effectively hide all enemies until he bumped into them.

"Clear," he whispered softly into the mouthpiece of his headset.

Moving as silently as the many pounds of equipment he was carrying allowed, Ivan stalked in a direction away from the receding Skyranger. Beside him, Robert slid into view, the foliage barely rustling as he moved. A terse grin from the pathfinder, and the Englishman was gone again. Ivan swore silently, wishing he could move as well as the Brit.

A few minutes later, the team rendezvoused at pre-arranged co-ordinates. Taiwanese military had only a sketchy report that something was moving in the sector immediately ahead of them, but that was all. It could have been a wild animal, or it could have been an alien. Only one way to find out.

  


What was that?

The snap of a twig caught Ivan's attention. Spread out in a loose skirmish line, the X-Com combat team came to an unanimous halt. Thirty minutes of silent trekking had flooded nerves with a tingling anticipation. A bolt of green lightning, Ivan recalled somberly. He hoped that he would not lose any more friends this time round.

Wolf signaled to Robert, motioning him to scout ahead. The Brit vanished quickly, swallowed by the mists. A second hand signal ordered the rest of the team forward, albeit more slowly. Ivan tightened his grip on the AK-74, ready to spray explosive death.

They had barely moved forward a dozen torturous steps when Robert returned. Moving quickly yet silently, he gave a silent nod and held up three fingers. His mouth was set in a grim line, and there was an eager gleam in his eyes.

Game time.

Wolf returned the nod, and indicated a pincer movement; left was Pieter, Mariko, and Whelan. Ivan would take Drake and Larson to the right and flank the aliens. Wolf would head the frontal assault with the rest of the team. They each had two minutes to move into position, then the attack would begin.

Tense with anticipation and dread, Ivan crept along as best as he could. The portable radio set on his back seemed to weigh tons in his hunched-over position. He marveled at how Drake seemed to move effortlessly, even in the uncomfortable half-crouch they were forced to employ. The Heckler and Koch MG36 Light Support Weapon was dwarfed by his huge frame.

Thirty seconds, Ivan silently counted. He could almost see the numbers appear in Drake's brain. As the count neared ten, Drake went prone and extended the LSW bipod. Already the mist had cleared enough to register indistinct shapes in the distance. Ivan fervently hoped that none of those were his fellow squad mates; there was absolutely nothing friendly about friendly fire.

Five ... four ...

Out of the corner of his eye, Ivan registered a quick, darting movement. There was no time to think, only react. He screamed out a warning and hurled himself to the ground, the AK-74 blasting. An icy, azure bolt of energy flashed past his shoulder, striking a tree. The moisture contained in the trunk flash-boiled instantly, cracking open the wood and toppling the short tree to the ground. The heat from the near miss seared open the fabric of his uniform. His hair standing on end from the minor electrical discharge propagated by the bolt, Ivan crashed heavily to the forest floor. Loud thunder boomed repeatedly nearby, and Ivan realized that Drake and Larson were returning fire.

A familiar croaking cry cut through the air. Another bolt of power flashed towards Drake, missing the man by inches. The heavy weapons specialist held his ground, and continued firing. He was rewarded by the loud thump of a body hitting the ground.

Another one of those azure bolts cut through the air towards the flanking team, from the opposite direction. It narrowly missed Larson, and the man hastily dropped to his knees, changing his field of fire. Streamers of energy washed past the space where his head had been a moment ago.

Outflanked! Ivan's mind screamed in warning.

While his mind struggled to adjust to the new threat, Ivan corrected his aim and stance. The AK-74 roared to life again, spitting 7.62mm rounds at some unseen target. The crash of underbrush told him that his unseen enemy was running for cover.

"He's on the run!" Larson cried. The man stumbled to his feet, intent on chasing after the foe.

Drake did not waste his breath; he made a grab for Larson but missed.

The answering blast of fire from the alien struck Larson in the chest, exploding his upper torso and sending charred chunks of meat in all directions. A second shot came at Drake as he frantically dodged, then a third thrummed through the air and smashed into his MG36.

The weapon literally exploded in a hail of shrapnel, but deflected the shot enough that it hissed harmlessly into the air. The kinetic force of the blast, though, hurled Drake from his feet. The man roared in pain from the shards of the destroyed weapon that had lanced through his flesh. Drake had not been an attractive man to start with, but he now had an entire new slew of facial scars to boast of; still, the ex-Delta Force soldier was thankful just to be alive.

Abandoning his position, Ivan scrambled aside. The movement drew the attention of the alien, and an energy bolt threw dirt into the air as it impacted not far from him. Risking a glance, Ivan saw that Drake had gotten back on his feet and was attempting a flank; he had drawn his sidearm, and was fisting a grenade in the other. Ivan knew what Drake was thinking, and emptied his entire magazine into the underbrush, keeping the Sectoid pinned.

Drake heaved the grenade into the brush in the next moment, then quickly dove for cover.

Ivan lost no time in doing the same.

A puzzled whicker came from the alien's, and coincidentally, the grenade's, position.

A moment later, pieces of deconstructed alien came raining down all over the place.

  


Across from the site of their desperate battle, the rest of the team was mixing it up as well. It turned out that Mariko's team had also been flanked, and were pinned down. Crimson and azure pulses flaming over their heads kept their noses in the dirt.

Wolf's group was having problems as well. The bait, the central team of three aliens, had commenced firing the instant Ivan had shouted out. Pivoting smoothly, two of them held massive weapons too big for their frames. Brilliant emerald lances throbbed through the air, cratering the ground in dull explosions of dirt. The last one hung back, holding some kind of alien pistol.

The sharp crack of Robert's FA-MAS heralded the results of his accuracy; one of the aliens received a radical craniotomy as a trio of 5.56mm rounds tore through its eye and out through the back of its skull. The other two seemed to realize the foolishness of standing upright in the middle of a battlefield with a crack shot, and quickly retreated.

The fire abated for a moment, and Wolf scooted forwards quickly, the G11 tucked in nice and tight against his shoulder. He could hear the furious firefights going on to his left and right, but for the moment, the remaining two aliens from the central team were his concern. He could hear Robert and Monique running behind him to the left, with Huczynski on his right, and caught a glimpse of the withdrawing aliens. Wolf loosed a couple of bursts at the moving targets, but missed. Bolts of green fire were returned, but the aliens did not have any better luck shooting on the run than he had. More fire from his team ensured that the aliens continued their retreat, and the chase was on.

  


Mariko winced as yet another near miss superheated the ground barely two feet from her. The aliens were toying with them, she could feel. Her team had been caught completely by surprise when the first crimson blast melted a nearby tree. What were they waiting for?

She had her answer a moment later.

Something struck the ground with pinpoint accuracy between her and Pieter. The resultant shockwave lifted her up from her prone position and slammed her back against a tree trunk some distance away. Utterly stunned, Mariko fought a losing battle to keep consciousness from flying away. She was dimly aware that the enemy fire had stopped.

Cold hands closed around her arms. They felt small but strong.

She was being taken prisoner!

Fear swept aside the clouds in her mind. Through a pounding headache, she saw them; two of those small gray ones Wolf had called 'Sectoids'. One of them was dragging her through the underbrush by her arms. Nearby, Whelan was struggling weakly with the other Sectoid.

She met the surprised eyes of her captor. It emitted a single startled shriek before she swung her left leg mightily in an arcing kick to knock it to the ground. Its hold on her arm released, Mariko deftly drew her sidearm clear. A flick of her thumb took the safety off, and the .357 Magnum spat and roared, blowing a hole right in the middle of the alien's huge forehead. 

Target down.

_Idiot_, she had time to think. _Didn't even disarm me fully ..._

The other alien had dropped Whelan upon hearing the .357, but stilled dazed, he was next to useless. Before Mariko could react, the remaining alien had pulled a pistol and shot Whelan in the back of his skull. As the body crumpled to the ground, the Sectoid turned the pistol in her direction, firing a barrage of shots as she weaved and dodged.

Apparently, the remaining alien had changed its mind about the merits of bringing them back alive.

She scooped up a handful of dirt on her way down and flung it at the alien. The Sectoid caught the moist earth in the face. Astonished at this unorthodox weapon, it gave a single bleating cry and tried to bring its pistol to bear again.

Too late. Mariko was too close by then.

A sweep with her left arm knocked the alien pistol to the side, then she brought one foot around in a powerful roundhouse kick that caught the Sectoid on the side of its head.

As the alien stumbled, Mariko executed a leaping front kick. It landed just under its chin, snapping its head brutally back. Another crunch echoed through the air, and the alien collapsed, holding what was very obviously a broken jaw. 

Taking pity on it, Mariko sent it into unconsciousness with a quick punch.

"Pieter," she breathed in alarm.

  


As it turned out, Pieter was having a bit less success than Mariko in breaking free of his captors. He had received the full benefit of the stun bomb, and had only just begun to recover consciousness. Much like Mariko, his first sensation upon awakening was the feel of deathly cold hands on his legs. Underbrush gently stroked his exposed head as they moved through the forest.

What the ... !

The indignity of being treated so jerked him fully awake. A true soldier, Pieter was immediately aware that he had been stripped of his weapons. His hands would have to be weapon enough.

He lurched to a half-sitting position, and grabbed at the aliens with his hands. The sudden movement jerked them to a halt, and they turned in surprise.

Pieter roared his anger at them, causing them to drop his legs. Clumsily getting to his knees, Pieter launched a vicious punch at one Sectoid and dropped it like a rock. The other Sectoid returned the favour, knocking him a good one across his cheek. The bruise would remain for days. Howling in outrage, Pieter simply grabbed the puny Sectoid and rammed his forehead into its face. He felt something break under the assault, the alien thrashing wildly in his grip. Grinning despite the pain, Pieter head butted it a second time, then dropped it.

As the alien mewled in pain from its broken face, Pieter noticed the strange, pistol-like implement it had dropped. Ah well, he thought, no time like the present to try and learn how to use an alien weapon. Pieter seized the weapon, making doubly certain to keep its 'barrel' pointed away from him.

Even alien weapons had triggers, Pieter smiled grimly as he held the alien pistol in a professional Weaver stance. He stroked the trigger gently as the alien got back to its feet.

Nothing happened.

_Safety!_ was his next thought a moment before the alien launched itself at him, fists flying. He blocked a kidney punch, then crunched a knee into its face. As the little monster folded, he clubbed it across the back of its skull with the pistol barrel. And again. And again.

Pieter stopped long after the Sectoid had stopped moving, grinning wildly at the green blood staining his clothes. He hefted the makeshift cudgel and turned his deadly attention to the other, unconscious Sectoid.

  


Wolf dodged yet another bolt of green fire. Damned, when did those things run out of ammo?

If they used hard ammo to start with, a little voice in his head argued.

He mentally told it to shut up, then dove for the ground as some sort of projectile detonated to his left. The blast caught his entire left side and flung him into Robert's path. A cursed oath from the pathfinder, then the two went down in a heap.

The Colonel groaned. The blast had left his entire left side numb. Arm and leg refused to move at all. Bright lights flashed in his head, making him afraid of a serious concussion. Robert shoved him roughly aside, struggling to bring his FA-MAS to bear, praying that Monique and Huczynski could retaliate quickly enough before the aliens turned them all into hunks of well-done steak.

No such luck.

The barking of an M16 echoed, abruptly silenced by a scintillating spear of power. Huczynski took the bolt in his left shoulder, and the force of it knocked him back on his behind.

"Damned," he managed to gasp. "That hurts."

Robert winced as he saw a secondary barrage of rapid fire literally rip Huczynski apart. He fired his FA-MAS blindly, without aiming, for about a second or so before the answering blast sliced his gun in half.

Stunned, Robert dropped the smoking weapon and stumbled back. His flak jacket had stopped most of the shrapnel, but metal shards had still cut into his exposed forearms. Out of the thinning mist, the two hunted aliens emerged, weapons pointed at the fallen humans.

"I say, old chap, we are in serious trouble," Robert murmured to nobody in particular.

One Sectoid hefted a mighty gun that looked almost too heavy for it to bear. The other held a truncated form of pistol with a bulbous head. Both chittered away in their alien tongue, turning a strange shade of earthy brown.

Robert could swear that they were laughing at him.

The characteristic roar of a G3 combat rifle shattered the sudden silence. Green ichor fountained from a broken Sectoid chest, the heavy rounds knocking the alien back a step or two. The cannon thudded to the ground as the wounded Sectoid tried futilely to stem the gushing blood with its hands. Another volley of bullets catapulted its broken body backwards.

The other alien pivoted smoothly and let loose with its weapon. A shrieking round vomited forth from its muzzle, exploding some distance behind Robert. Even from here, the concussion wave buffeted him. Heavy footfalls told him that Monique was desperately trying to find cover before the alien fired again.

"It's payback time, mate," Robert whispered softly.

He rode the fading concussion wave forward, willingly falling to a knee and simultaneously drawing his trusty German Walther P-88. Ignoring the pain from his bleeding hands, Robert drew a bead on the alien as it fumbled to reload its launcher. He pulled the trigger and stitched a line of 9mm Parabellums across its chest. This arrived with a third burst of rounds from Monique, and the alien dropped into a crumpled, bleeding mass.

  


They found Pieter with little difficulty. Hollering at the top of one's voice tends to attract attention, even if it might be of the unwanted kind.

Mariko had hauled her unconscious captive back, where some quick work with belts and backpack straps had trussed the bugger up nice and tight. Drake eyed the alien with undisguised hatred as Monique extracted fragments of metal from his face and neck.

"Watch it," he growled as the medic tugged hard on a stubborn splinter. "It stings."

"Ooh, poor baby," Robert chuckled, having just undergone the same procedure a few minutes ago. He was busy wrapping a bandage around a hand.

"Don't you mock me, man," Drake began, but abruptly cut short as Monique stabbed him unforgivingly with her forceps. His breath came out in a whoosh, and the medic held up a bloodied piece of shrapnel.

"If you can complain, you will definitely live," she grinned. "Now, _entschuldigen_, I must see to Pieter."

Only Pieter had sustained a truly serious injury, from the force blast he had received. Pieter sported several broken ribs, but nothing life-threatening; a splint or two, and he was good as new. With the adrenaline high fading, the pain of his injuries hit him with a vengeance. He would have to helped to the pick-up zone.

Along the way, they heard a muffled roar. Visible even through the canopy of the temperate forest, a silvery-gray shape floated up into the air and rapidly vanished in the distance.

"There goes the first prize," Wolf lamented.

It was a long trek to the pick-up zone.


	3. Dissention In The Ranks

Predictably, the scientists were overjoyed at having some hard material to work with. They fussed and pored over the various weapons that the combat team had brought back, displaying all the enthusiasm of three year olds with new toys. Stifling their laughter, Wolf led the squad away to their quarters for some well-deserved rest.

The same could not be said of the alien that they had captured. Within minutes of being brought back to base, the creature had begun to display classic signs of asphyxia. Turning an alarming shade of purple, the Sectoid had thrashed wildly in its makeshift bindings even as two scientists struggled to bring it to down. A moment later, it had hacked in an all-too-human manner, and promptly collapsed. A defibrillator was put into action, although it was all too possible that the anthropomorphic view on xenophysiology might have killed it rather than saved it. An EEG had been hooked up after the Sectoid had foundered, but no brain activity had been detected, and the medics had resignedly certified their first dead alien. Still, its corpse would provide for vital research into alien anatomy and physiology.

Post-operation debrief was equally short and sharp. The team went over the tactics that the aliens had used; essentially, the flankers had been out-flanked, and the entire team had nearly been caught in a pincer movement and shredded. If Ivan had not spotted the careless first alien, they might not be around at all. As it was, they had already lost three men.

The one bright spot was that the scientists had been working on a new combat rifle for some time, and they promised to have it completed by the coming week.

  


It was a quiet week after that initial incident. No UFO activity was detected, although the combat team was on permanent standby. The highlight of the week was the arrival of the new combat rifle the scientists had promised.

In the 1960s, the US Department of Defense authorized research into using flechette-based weapons - rifles which fired small steel darts weighing a fraction of heavy bullets, but doing much more damage because of their drastically increased velocity. The project was completed in 35 months, but only a small contract was awarded to Aircraft Armaments Incorporated (AAI) to further this research. The next step took place from the late 1980s to the early 1990s. This was the three hundred million project under the Advanced Combat Rifle (ACR) heading. However, the project only flared briefly before being cancelled. Under the development team, only a total of four basic prototypes were produced. The Heckler and Koch G11 Wolf was currently using was a result of this project. Heckler and Koch later ditched the technologically more advanced G11 in favour of their current assault rifle model, the G36.

The actuality of the situation was far different from the face that Congress presented to the world; in a feat of political maneuvering, X-Com had requisitioned the research data for its purposes, simultaneously managing to eradicate most records from existence, thus explaining the paucity of available data on the ACR project.

Each of the ACR prototypes had boasted a unique design; for example, the AAI ACR used a triple chamber breech, whipping the unit past the barrel to fire rounds in rapid succession, and the Colt ACR fired Duplex rounds - bullets which split in two prior to impact - for a shotgun-like pellet effect. Head weapons scientist Dr. Moira Taggart had spent the past decade or so homogenizing all these features into a single weapon.

The result was the X-Com Combat Rifle.

Integrating the triple chamber breech of the AAI ACR with the superb cyclic rate of fire of the G11, Dr. Taggart created a weapon with a 1,800 rpm rate of fire; not particularly exceptional, but still high enough to maintain the almost recoil-less burst fire of the G11. Using specialized munitions, the XCR also provided for bullets with a muzzle velocity so high, it eliminated the need for sophisticated targeting sights since the projectile trajectory was virtually flat for the entire operational range of the rifle. Its advanced muzzle break and improved compensator reduced felt muzzle recoil, similar to the G11 and Colt ACR. For convenience, the magazine was transparent, so the operator could tell at a glance how many rounds were left.

The XCR fired a special 6.7mm high-powered round that was a variant of the special Duplex rounds created specifically for the Colt ACR. Colt ACR Duplex rounds fragmented into front and rear portions, with the front round impacting normally while the rear round careened off a-ways. XCR ammunition was similarly fractured. The front part would make the entry wound, and the intermediate wound medium would subsequently destabilize the flight path of the second part. This would cause very grievous wounds very much like those inflicted by hollow point bullets, but also provide for a modicum of armour penetrating power. Unfortunately, this made the bullets very large, and the magazine could hold only twenty projectiles.

The XCR also featured an integrated laser sight. The barrel-mounted bipod could be extended to improve firing stability when appropriate. Its folding stock also allowed for easier transportation. All this came at a price, naturally. The XCR weighed in at a hefty 8.3 kilos, comparable to some of the assault rifles under 'official' development by the US military. Following the tradition of the M16 series of rifles, the XCR could also be mounted with an underslung 40mm grenade launcher for greater explosive firepower. Unfortunately, this rocketed the weight up to over ten kilograms, making it a real burden to carry into battle.

Still, Ivan would take all the firepower he could get when dealing with those aliens.

  


Wolf grunted and stretched in his chair. The Taiwan mission had not gone well, but the team had learned some valuable lessons in dealing with the aliens, so it was not a total loss. At this moment, the team commander was examining a possible urban-combat scenario. It called for the X-Com team to assault an alien-held building with civilians inside. They had to prepare for as many possible situations as possible, after all.

The team had just finished one of those endless physical training regimes that are common to every military force in the world. Wolf had led them around the base perimeter, which was basically an empty corridor acting as a buffer between the base outside environment and the actual base walls itself. The corridor itself had no other function than to serve as an easy access tunnel for whatever maintenance was required.

It was incredibly boring to run through those dark-grey environs, especially since they had to do it four times over. Pushing forty-five now, Wolf was starting to find it slightly difficult to keep up with his team members on the gruelling twelve-kilometre run. The corridor ran up and down, and the gradient shifts made going quite tough at times. Drake and Robert ran marathons for recreation, though, and they never seemed to get exhausted; for a man his size, Drake could set a really mean pace when he wanted to.

Weapons training followed immediately after the run. The range was a half-kilometre long room with reinforced walls to prevent any stray rounds from penetrating to the outside. They had been learning how to fire the new XCR. Thanks to the excellent sights, just about anyone could shoot the rifle well up to over two hundred meters, not that there was a particularly great need for accuracy; the Duplex bullet ensured practically instant death or incapacitation from a single hit, at least for anything as fragile as a human being.

His men were really shaping up, Wolf thought with a hint of pride. Rifles were one thing, but they were also achieving excellent scores with their secondary sidearms. None of them had been exceptionally proficient with firearms when they had first started out - it would have attracted much unwanted attention if X-Com had suddenly begun recruiting from the ranks of elite units. Once the organization really got off the ground, though, Wolf planned on bringing in some serious talent from military agencies around the world; he had an eye for this chap working for the Israeli Mossad at the moment, supposedly a real genius at computers and breaking cryptographic ciphers.

Wolf turned his attention back to the file sitting on his desk. The urban-fighting scenario would require at least one sniper rifle. One man here, with a Heckler and Koch PSG-1 semiautomatic sniper rifle, would be able to take down aliens, and the rest of the team covering the exits. Then flashbangs, like those anti-terrorism teams used, could be used to disorientate the aliens or at least distract them, long enough for the team to storm into the building and punch 6.7mm holes in alien bodies. Yes, it might work. He would get the training supervisors to set it up.

  


***

  


The Border is still intact, Kalvar thought. Be grateful for little favours.

The representatives of the peoples of the _Tel' Istar_ were in council, but it was a council in uproar. The news brought by the probes had thrown everyone into a near-panic. The Ancient Foe had finally re-awakened, its soulless hordes once again on the march. Moments after the first alarms had been sounded, the Ancient Foe had sent its minions to destroy every single long-range probe within the Border Worlds.

The _Tel' Istar_ were slowly but surely being blinded.

Within weeks, perhaps even days, the inevitable slaughter would begin.

Kalvar knew. He was one of the few who remembered the terrors and atrocities from the first Devourer War.

How has it come to this? He reflected bitterly. One would have imagined, after the scars and Pyrrhic victories from the War, the _Tel' Istar_ would have learned its lessons. For a glorious one hundred and forty-eight years, all personal grievances had been set aside, and the peoples had worked as one, first to repel the Ancient Foe, then to rebuild the wasted cities and planets left in its wake.

All that work, undone because the people's memories were too short. Too short to remember.

Like the warmonger Orvax. Him and his damnable spymasters.

Orvax noticed Kalvar's attention, then. The monster smiled, the augmented fangs bared in a disturbing grin. Muscle rippled underneath his emerald-hued skin, muscle augmented with microelectronics and fibres - strength enough to punch a hole clean through a ship's bulkhead. Orvax was a master of strategy, never shirking from the bloody work of the battlefield when it was called for, and the Lord Overseer of the _Tel' Istar_ armies.

His men loved him.

Legion upon legion of the troopers, from the elite shock battalions of the Balorians, Orvax's kind, to the sleek and deadly terrorist Antiluvians, and even the rank-and-file Sastrian and Gelorian soldiers.

All standing ready to repel an invasion.

An invasion that would never come. An army facing the wrong way.

Kalvar sighed. The Earthlings would never invade. They did not have the means, nor the will. Look at them, screaming victory at seeing their kind walk upon the face of the Earthen moon. They were infants compared to the _Tel' Istar_. Their potential was so great, but they were indescribably primitive.

Even with all the help the _Tel' Istar_ had provided over the past fifty years. Quantum physics, atmospheric flight, democracy, Latin, their 'modern' Gregorian calendar ... the list ran on and on. How could an entire race be so slow, so blind?

Orvax had returned his attention to the quarreling council members. There was Byrak, his face puffed and purple, his organic antigravity organ pulsing as he tried vainly to get a point across to arguing councilmen. And Ssatrak, the serpent, shaking his head at what little Tathromile was saying. Eventually, the latter gave up, and folded his huge, distended cranium in his tiny hands. 

The Lord Overseer Orvax had had enough. He said so as much, slamming his hands down on the metal table before him with enough force to dent it.

"Silence!" Orvax roared.

The cacophony ceased.

"Listen to yourselves!" The Lord Overseer thundered. "Screaming and weeping like Turlangans with their little, chitinous legs pulled off! Where is the dignity? Where is the pride of the _Tel' Istar_?"

Shamed faces refused to meet his gaze. Orvax continued.

"We are the Tel' Istar. Forty-three years ago, we stood up against the Great Devourer, the Ancient Foe. We marshaled our forces to fight against the metal beasts, and we won! How can we do any less now?

"Some of you may argue, but times are different now - not only do we face the Ancient Foe, we also face new enemies. The list is countless: the Jolvril, the Arcanius Mechanus, and so on. We even face the Earthlings!

So what? We are _Tel' Istar_. We shall prevail. It is what we have done, it is what we shall always do. Let them come. We shall crush them one by one. From the strongest to the weakest, we shall bend them to our yokes."

There came a ragged cheer from the crowd. But Orvax held up a hand and went on.

"The difficulty, now, is time. It is the one thing we simply do not have. Within the next few weeks, the Ancient Foe will begin nibbling away at the edges of our empire. To consume us, to assimilate us. We must resist!"

Kalvar could see where this was going. He began to rise, and the action caught Orvax's attention. The Balorian flashed his terrible smile at the councilor and simply rolled over him.

"But to resist, we need materials. Warriors, equipped with our best technology, to stand firm against our foes. Elerium, to power our weapons. Ships, to take our valiant troops into battle. From where shall we gather these materials?

"The answer is: we cannot.

"We cannot because the Guardians _insist_ on protecting those of lesser stature than the _Tel' Istar_. Noble sentiments, my fellows, noble sentiments. These lesser beings are most deserving of our protection, I concur, but how can we protect them if we cannot protect ourselves?

"Sacrifice is the answer to this. Sacrifice. Is it not better for a soldier to throw himself upon an explosive, to shield his fellows from its blast? Is it not better for a dictator and tyrant to die, so that no more will be fodder for his torture chambers? Is it not better to lay waste to a few worlds, to claim their resources as our own, instead of letting the Ancient Foe carve our empire apart - and devour other worlds under our protection?"

Kalvar found his voice. "No! To sacrifice the value of an individual is to sacrifice our entire creed, the entire base upon which our society is built!"

"What individual value?" Orvax laughed scornfully. "The soldier knows that he is but a small part of a greater whole, so that if that greater whole must cut off a small portion of itself to survive, so be it! And thus, the soldier makes his sacrifice willingly."

"That is not so. Every individual possesses an independent genetic future. By destroying such individual genetic lines, we are in turn destroying possible avenues of glory for our people." The minute the words were uttered, Kalvar knew that he had made a fatal mistake.

"By that same line of reasoning, we are also destroying possible threats to our people."

Kalvar tried to recover, but he knew it as pointless.

"The Earthlings are NOT a threat, they are primitive ..."

The Lord Overseer cut in. "But you have just said that they have independent genetic futures - futures in which they might destroy _us_. And you cannot prove otherwise."

Orvax's vicious, victorious grin chilled Kalvar as agreement resounded throughout the room. Activating his mindlink, Orvax spoke directly to Kalvar. "Your Guardians are no more, Kalvar. The Crusaders rule from now on."

Kalvar refused to acknowledge that. With a regal sweep of his robes, he rose and left the room, trailed by a few of his supporters.

Orvax punched a massive fist in the air.

"Let a new age begin - with the slaughter of the Earthlings!"


	4. Live From Colorado

The chance to test out the new XCR came quickly. A UFO had landed smack in the middle of a rural area in Colorado, sending the inhabitants into a state of panic. In a small village that consisted of no more than two hundred civilians, a UFO was big news. The token police force there - only a dozen men - would be cut to ribbons if the aliens chose to attack en masse.

The X-Com combat team had loaded up into the Skyranger immediately and came down close to the alien craft. Rather brazenly, it had set down in the middle of a field of golden grain, unceremoniously frying everything for dozens of feet in every direction. It was of the now-familiar silvery gray metal type, although this one was positively huge and shaped like some obscene cross.

"X marks the spot," Robert had quipped.

There was nothing funny about it to the nervous police officers keeping an eye on the alien craft. They had evacuated everyone in the immediate vicinity, then parked a squad car at a set of its opposing apexes.

Chief Edgar Williams was terribly relieved to see the combat team, and made no attempt to hide it. He was in over his head, and he knew it. Still, he volunteered his men - without asking them - to act as backup if required.

Looking at their puny pistols, Ivan forbore to sneer at how much help they would be. At slightly past midnight, the only light came from the flashing sirens of the police cars and their headlights. Add the darkness to the myriad places available for five-foot gray men to hide in, and there was a prime recipe for a slaughter.

Wolf did not like it one bit, and made it known in no uncertain terms.

"Breaklights," he ordered. "And NVDs."

The night vision devices were bulky scopes that were fastened to the top of the XCR iron sights. It was only a matter of moments to screw them into place. As the chemical lightsticks were being passed around, Wolf detailed assignments.

"Alright, we shall assume that at least some aliens have left the ship. Pieter and Ivan, you boys sweep around the UFO on that side, and Drake and Mariko will handle this side. Intel says that the door is on the far side, facing the road to town, so you fellows meet up there. The rest of us chaps will clear the house then join up with you folks. Once the area is clear, we'll storm the alien craft and make sure we don't lose it this time."

"We?" Robert murmured softly.

Wolf ignored him.

"Let's go."

  


Moving in an uncomfortable half-crouch, Ivan sought to move as quietly as possible. The gentle rustling of the corn in the breeze covered the slight crunches his feet made as they landed. Coupled with the noisy crickets and night birds, Ivan thought he was all but inaudible. Still, it paid to be quiet.

Stalking around the perimeter of the alien craft, Ivan came to halt some thirty meters from the alleged 'door' of the alien craft. He settled into a prone position, training his XCR on the apparently blank surface of the UFO. Behind him, he could hear Pieter quietly moving into place to guard his back.

Guessing that Mariko and Drake would occupy a position roughly similar to theirs, only opposite their current position, Ivan activated the small infrared light attached to his NVD scope. The light could be used as an aid to reading maps in the dark, adapted from the old US Army PSV-7 night goggles. In a combat situation, it could be used to accurately acquire targets through the scope. Ivan had thought it to be a joke on mounting something like this on a weapon scope, but now he was grateful for it. The light was completely invisible to the human eye, but showed up like a beacon if looked at it through another NVD scope. Best of all, it was completely silent.

Ivan put his eye to the scope after turning the IR light on, and was rewarded by a brilliant streak leading off to some brush almost opposite his position. Satisfied, he switched the IR light off.

Now all they had to do was wait for Wolf to finish his sweep.

  


The house was a small one, probably housing only the farmer and his wife, maybe a kid or two, though unlikely, Wolf thought. Single-storied and unassuming, it was dark and menacing in the darkness. The door was slightly ajar, probably blown open by the wind. The sound of a television set left on filtered back out.

Cautiously edging the door fully open, with Robert and Monique covering him, Wolf entered the kitchen. A corridor led to the living room, lined on either side by four doors. He swore silently; four possible ambush points.

Creeping along quietly, Wolf motioned Monique to cover the corridor while Robert took the first room on the right. He headed for the one on the left, the XCR cradled lightly in his hand. He absently noted that Robert had slung his own XCR over his shoulder and had drawn his Walther P-88. Holding his breath, Wolf strained to listen for any sound out of the ordinary; the blaring television made it all but impossible. Rather annoyed at this, Wolf peeked into the room quickly, leading with the muzzle of the XCR.

It was a study room. Shelves of books lined the walls, and a simple writing desk was set in the middle. Apart from behind the desk, there was absolutely no place for any alien to hide. Feeling the tension drain momentarily out of him, Wolf glanced at Robert. The Englishman shook his head once, then gestured with his pistol to check out the second set of rooms.

They drew a similar negative. Only the living room left. His nerves rubbed raw with anticipation, Wolf would quite happily have shot the television to bits if the two Sectoids were not in the way. 

They were watching the television. Jerry Springer, to be precise. Wolf and Robert looked on in amazement as the Sectoids gestured wildly with their arms, exchanging unreadable expressions. They seemed totally oblivious to the outside world.

"It's called television," Wolf informed them helpfully.

Startled, they turned, just in time to catch a hail of lead from the sweep team.

  


Something was wrong, Ivan could feel it. He whispered quietly to Pieter.

"Do you feel it?"

He felt rather than heard Pieter's nod.

"_Da_. Listen, no birds."

Indeed. The night had gone silent.

Pieter shifted his cyalume lightstick into one hand, snapped it with a rapid movement and hurled it as far as he could. As it sailed through the air, the chemicals in the breaklight ignited, releasing a pale green glow that was startlingly outstanding in the dark night.

Moments before the breaklight landed, a blaze of crimson energy lit the night. In a remarkable display of accuracy, the bolt of power consumed the breaklight. Ivan and Pieter had been waiting just for this.

Ivan put his eye to the NVD scope mounted on his XCR. The Starlight device amplified whatever light there was, turning the dark night an eerie dull green. Through it, two small figures could be seen moving rapidly through the underbrush in his direction.

In addition to its light amplification properties, the NVD also had targeting crosshairs painted on its lens. Ivan drew a bead on the lead alien, and tightened his finger on the trigger. Every third bullet in the magazine was a tracer round; essentially, a pyrotechnic compound in a hollow base that was ignited by the cartridge powder whenever the weapon was fired. This provided for highly visible target spotting because the shooter could see the bullet trajectory.

A brilliant streak of orange flashed out to connect solidly with something. The familiar squeal came as the alien stumbled and fell. Its partner turned quickly, unleashing fiery bolts of destruction over Ivan's head as he buried his face in the dirt.

Pieter returned the favour two-fold, the harsh whine of his XCR spitting out Duplex rounds, cutting through the night. Faint fire blossomed as the heavy bullets shredded the remaining alien. From across their position, Ivan heard a hissing, followed by the sound of explosive ammunition ricocheting off metal.

"Unfriendlies!"

The warning shout came over the comm-net just as verdant energy washed over the corn stalks mere inches from Pieter's left. His wince of pain from the superheated air was quickly followed by the sound of Pieter diving for cover.

Ivan spun away from his defeated enemies to face the UFO. A door had opened in its side, and the enemy was pulsing fire at his position. Mariko and Drake were already pumping bullets at the aliens still contained within the craft, the heavy weapons specialist having replaced the MG36 he had lost on the previous mission in Taiwan. Duplex rounds mixed with 5.56mm shells in a metal storm that swept the UFO entrance.

The battle was joined.

  


In the house, the first alien caught Wolf's first barrage full in the chest. The explosive rounds hurled its broken body into the television set, finally silencing it. 9mm Parabellums took apart the second Sectoid.

"Never knew Jerry Springer had such intergalactic appeal," Robert sniffed.

The whine of an XCR from the rear of the house brought them running back into the kitchen, where Monique crouched behind the kitchen sink. Azure and crimson energy pulses flashed over her head, cratering the walls and sending Wolf and Robert to the floor in a hurry.

"What took you so long?" Monique demanded as she snapped off another shot over her head without looking.

"We stopped to smell the flowers," Wolf returned equally curtly, crawling back to the relative safety of the corridor. A crimson bolt punched a hole in the corridor wall a full handspan across.

"They've got us well and truly pinned down," Robert observed, risking a crouching run to the counter next to the door. He flinched as a concentrated stream of fire obliterated the door frame on his side, but held his ground as he poked the XCR around the ruined door frame and fired blindly. 

"Back upstairs," Wolf ordered.

If nothing else, the higher elevation would give them a better sniping position.

They started backing up, laying down a stream of suppressive fire to cover their retreat. Monique even made it as far as the study room before the alien grenade landed just outside the kitchen door. Even from there, the detonation caved walls in on top of them, and turned the kitchen inside-out.

  


The stand-off outside the UFO came to an abrupt halt as a ruby blast clipped Drake over one shoulder. It was only a glancing blow, but the impact flung him to the ground. Drake lay there stunned, the cloth of the uniform over his shoulder completely vaporized. The flesh beneath was charred black, and the sickening smell of burnt muscle hung heavy in the air. Through the haze of pain, Drake retained enough discipline to mouth into his throat mike, "SAW is hit, SAW is hit."

Mariko clinically noted that he was down for this fight, and quite possibly permanently if the shock did not kill him.

With the limited firepower afforded by only two aliens, Ivan and Pieter were able to leap-frog towards the open aperture in the UFO; while Ivan fired short bursts to cover Pieter, the other Russian would run for some nearby cover or just crash prone, then Pieter would do the same for Ivan. Unfortunately, as a natural consequence of the stress of high-speed movement and combat and the anticipation of getting hit by an energy burst, their aim was completely off. The fusillade of gunfire they returned did nothing but bounce off the tough metallic skin of the UFO. Firing into an open doorway is never easy, especially if it is dark inside the doorway, and the enemy is firing back at you.

The team only had one integrated rifle-grenade launcher. Fortunately, Mariko was holding it in her hands. The 40mm high explosive grenade chambered home with a satisfying click. She sighted along the IR line projected by her NVD scope, directly into the interior of the UFO doorway, then pulled the trigger gently.

The force of the explosive blast contained within the confines of the UFO interior was not particularly healthy to the aliens within the craft. There were terrified shrieks as the grenade went off. The night grew bright for a moment, punctuated with bits and pieces of flying alien. 

Before the detonation had subsided, Ivan and Pieter were already sprinting for the door. 

Regretfully leaving them to do so on their own, Mariko broke out the standard pocket-sized first aid bandage available to all armed forces of the world, and started seeing to Drake. If the big man was very lucky, he might even survive.  


"What the ..."

Robert groaned as he pushed his way out of the wreckage. There was a terrible ringing in his ears, and he kept seeing bright flashing spots. Concussion, he analyzed. A bad one, too. He absently noted Wolf crouched down behind a pile of smoking debris, his nose and ears bleeding, but his eyes blazing with hatred. He did not see Monique anywhere.

Robert's blood went cold.

Unable to do more than that, he watched as if from a great distance. The first Sectoid stepped through the ruined doorway, obviously not expecting any threat. He saw its black-eyed glance settle on him, then the alien began moving purposefully towards the downed soldier. The deadly looking pistol the Sectoid held did nothing to comfort him. Behind the advancing alien, Robert could see another two more Sectoids, one following the first moving alien, and the other training its weapon on the smoldering portal.

No, Robert tried to gasp to Wolf, there are two more outside.

Wolf let the first Sectoid pass.

Robert found himself looking into the barrel of the alien pistol.

"Um," he began.

The loud crack of an XCR gave him a moment's warning before a veritable cloud of alien brains showered down all over him. Brushing frantically at the nauseating mess, Robert felt the Sectoid collapse on him, spilling more of its ichor all over him. He heard more sharp reports, and out of the corner of his eye, saw a very disheveled Monique cutting loose with her XCR.

As the team medic shot the head off the Sectoid about to execute Robert, Wolf moved into action. Fully aware that there could still be hostiles just outside the remains of the wall, he chanced a quick glance over the top of the pile of debris he was hiding behind. Spotting the two aliens Robert had seen earlier, Wolf saw the alien on overwatch begin shooting back at Monique as the second advancing Sectoid headed for the very same pile of rubble that Wolf was hiding behind, no doubt seeking cover. Neither appeared to have noticed him yet.

Wolf waited until the alien had crouched down, then vaulted over the mess and landed next to the surprised Sectoid. He bashed its broad forehead with the rifle stock, stunning it into dropping its weapon, then trained his weapon on the other alien.

Unable to decide whether to retaliate against Monique's fire or this sudden, new threat, the Sectoid hesitated for one fatal second. Monique flipped her XCR into full auto mode, and plugged the alien clean in the chest. As the first burst tore open the alien chest, Wolf dumped a few more of his own bullets into the already-open cavity.

A slim, four-fingered hand grabbed at his rifle then, pushing it upwards and spoiling his aim. With the overwatch alien already flying through the air in a geyser of green blood, that hardly mattered. Wolf released his rifle, then brought the flat edge of his hand down on the offending wrist and shattered it.

The Sectoid mewled in pain, immediately releasing the heavy rifle. Wolf drove a savage fist into the fallen alien, knocking the breath out of it. He drew his omnipresent katana with a single, fluid motion.

"I'm going to enjoy this," Wolf told the alien. 

When Monique got to him, supporting the still-dazed Robert, she took one look at what Wolf had done to the Sectoid and promptly let the Englishman fall unceremoniously to the floor. Turning on one heel, Monique relinquished control over her stomach.

  


Ivan flattened himself against the side of the open UFO door, Pieter opposite him. A nod from Pieter, and he turned deftly to fall into a crouch, the XCR muzzle covering the door. All was silent though; evidently, Mariko's grenade had taken care of the aliens guarding the UFO door.

The UFO interior behind the door was a sort of broad Y-shaped junction, with the portion interconnecting the corridors widening into a small room. The ceiling gave off a faint, white glow that provided enough illumination to navigate by. The floor and walls had been blacked from the grenade blast, and the remains of three Sectoids lay strewn all over the room. From his vantage point, Ivan could see either exit from the central room terminating in a sort of door. An engraved symbol next to each door twinkled mischievously in the dim light.

Ivan moved all the way into the UFO, Pieter right behind him. Once inside, even with the main door open, it became unnaturally quiet, as if the very walls were absorbing all noise. His nerves strung tight, Ivan was horribly aware of the fact that he and Pieter were the only X-Com personnel aboard this alien vessel. There would be no reinforcements until Mariko finished tending to the wounded Drake outside.

The door behind them gave a sudden chirp, then slammed shut. A low hum filled the air, and Ivan thought he could feel vibrations through the craft. Panic almost consumed him, until training asserted itself. Alright, so they were sealed in. The door looked to be electronically opened, so all they had to do was find and shoot apart the control apparatus. Simple.

Pieter was also visibly anxious. He pointed with the XCR towards the right exit, and Ivan nodded in reply. He positioned himself facing the exit, while Pieter flattened himself against the wall containing the alien sigil. Taking a deep breath, Pieter touched the strange glyph.

The panel in front of them slid open with a soft hiss. The way was immediately clear, and Ivan lost no time in barreling through with his XCR leading. Pieter crouched down so that he was half-concealed by the panel frame, his XCR poking through the aperture at the room beyond.

It appeared to be some sort of control room, similar in structure to the one they had just left. Immediately across their entrance point was another exit, this one sealed shut. At the apex of the Y-shaped room, exotic machinery covered the walls. The centre wall was dominated by a huge display screen. Alien hieroglyphics flashed across it in a dazzling display.

Most interesting of all was the Sectoid standing in front of the screen. It was touching various symbols over the length of the walls, its four-fingered hands moving with surprising speed and precision. Pre-occupied with whatever it was doing, the alien turned as the entrance slid open and Ivan charged through. It squeaked in surprise and dove for cover as XCR bullets sizzled past it. The potent bullets shattered the display screen. The insistent hum of the ship was instantly silenced. Ivan and Pieter tracked the fleeing Sectoid, methodically walking their fire after it, destroying whatever alien machinery happened to be in the way. The Sectoid got as far as the other exit before a volley of 6.7mm bullets finally caught up with it.

  


Mariko caught up with Ivan and Pieter as they were killing the last alien. She had binded Drake's wound and propped him up against the side of a tree. They swept through the rest of the craft, fortunately turning up no more aliens. It certainly looked bigger on the outside than it was on the inside; apart from the entrance and control centres, there was a much smaller utility-type room located just behind the door the last alien had been trying to reach. From there, another door led back to the main entrance room.

Of greatest interest was the compartment located at the intersecting 'arms' of the X-shaped UFO. It reminded Ivan of the plasma propulsion tubes in the engine room of the U.S.S Enterprise in Star Trek. Those were only television props; these were the real thing. An elaborate set of alien controls sat on a panel in front of the column. Orange fire within the tube itself cast a warm shade on the walls of the room.

In the interim waiting for the Skyranger to arrive for dust-off, Monique took another look at Drake. The wound was far less serious than it looked; she judged it to be only second-degree burns. A bit of rest, and Drake would be back on duty with two weeks. It would be tender and sore while it healed, of course, but former Delta Force soldiers were supposed to be unspeakably tough. Drake's grumbling did not help the illusion.

Robert was more of a problem. He had most certainly received a serious concussion, and there was no telling if there was anymore internal damage until they got him back to an advanced medical facility for testing. The alien grenade had caved-in the kitchen as well, and Robert had been hit by a falling support beam. At least there was no clear cerebrospinal fluid leaking out of his ears.

Monique herself had taken the least injury, having been farthest away from the grenade when it had exploded. Apart from numerous bruises and a couple of splinters in awkward places, she was fine. The Colonel had been lucky enough to escape serious hurt as well, although he would experience tinnitus for the rest of his life.

All told, it had been a relatively good fight. No-one had gotten killed, although they were all a bit worse for the wear. And they had bagged their first intact UFO.

Well, intact apart from whatever Ivan and Pieter had shot apart.

  



	5. Under The Ground

It had been fully a month since the last UFO sighting, and X-Com had been busy setting up an extra fire team following the success of the pioneer corps. Drake and Robert had fully recovered from their injuries with no lasting ill effects. The XCR combat rifle had proven its worth as well, and the Command-in-Chief of X-Com, or CINCXCOM, had authorized its manufacture in substantial quantities. If nothing else, the surplus could be sold for extra funding.

A new X-Com base was already being set up in the Nevada Desert in the United States. Somewhat appropriately, it was actually an extension the infamous Area 51 base. Since Area 51 already possessed the requisite advanced scientific research facilities and a whole military base to boot, it was a simple matter to supplement the troops there with a second X-Com combat team, headed by a _Sho-sa_ Jiro Ishiyama from the Japanese Home Defence Force. Modelled after the pioneer combat team of seven people, this combat team would be use far more specialized personnel. X-Com Combat Team Rattler had a sniper and a heavy weapons specialist, as well as a demolitions expert. They would be issued the new X-Com heavy cannon, which was basically a glorified 40mm grenade launcher with an improved delivery system for greater range. The cannon would accept clips of six grenades, but could still be loaded with individual 40mm grenades in an emergency. The team would field light anti-tank weapons as well, making it more of a fire support unit rather than the close assault capabilities of the Team Shark, the newly-christened pioneer group.

Apart from the freshly implemented heavy cannon, the bright minds in Science had also been actively probing the alien metal that all the UFOs appeared to be constructed of. It was a strange alloy, unachievable under normal atmospheric conditions. Composed of titanium, aluminium, tungsten and germanium, it was tougher than reinforced concrete yet lighter than steel, and much more flexible than either. The scientists had been unable to decode the actual method of manufacturing the substance, but since alien alloys tended to be recovered in bulk from UFOs - the entire craft was, after all, made up of it - this rendered the former point completely moot. As it was, the X-Com storehouses were full of the stuff. Fortunately, it did not require any great amount of skill to work and shape the alien metal; the common, industrial lasers available to heavy industries all over the world had proved sufficient for all purposes and intents.

The whole shebang was very good news for the X-Com combat teams. Along with the enhanced firepower of a second combat team, instead of relying on mere Kevlar jackets to stop the alien energy weapons, they now had a type of combat armour that might provide a better chance of survival. Manufacturing was churning out as many of suits of armour as possible, but so far, only Team Shark was fully equipped with it. Team Rattler would take another full week to receive their shipment of the personal armour. Obviously, it was much thinner than the armour mounted on UFOs; still, thirty-six layers of the alien alloy could be compressed into a plate barely an inch thick, yet still providing far more protection than thirty-six layers of Kevlar could ever hope to provide.

The X-Com Combat Armour XCA Mark I resembled some strange type of medieval plate armour. The underlayer was a silvery mesh which was similar to a body suit, and the armour plates were inserted into special pockets in this body suit. In a bid to keep a familiar feel to the new armour, the designers had opted to keep the many pouches present in normal combat fatigues. The whole outfit had been painted with a non-reflective matt-gray finish.

Trying out his personal armour for the very first time, Ivan had thought it not unlike shrugging into a wet suit. The metal plates had already been woven into the suit, and it was a little difficult to avoid getting stabbed by the sharp ends and edges. Still, once it was on, it proved remarkably unrestricting; it was like wearing one's favourite set of jeans and tees, if slightly heavier. There were plates everywhere, from the quadriceps to the biceps to the pectorals. Attempting to scratch at an inconvenient spot, Ivan found that there were even gluteal plates. Sure, the armour was flexible enough to bend if one sat down, but that was distinctly unpleasant.

The combat webbing went on over all that, providing a convenient location for the bayonet and its sheath. The ammunition pouches on the webbing could hold two magazines each, and up to three grenade canisters could be clipped on to the harness belt.

The science division had not just been working on that, as it turned out. A crack team of ten scientists had laboured over the recovered alien corpses, working around the clock for a whole week, attempting to churn out a detailed report on Sectoid physiology. The gray ones were not particularly tough, despite being able to absorb five or six 7.62mm bullets before dying. Their raw anatomy was remarkably similar to humans, with a few distinctions; the heart was located next to the stomach, just above the pelvic region. Lungs, spleen and liver took the place of the heart cavity in the chest in humans. The cranium was also far more developed than mere humans. Apart from that, what could kill a human would most definitely also kill a Sectoid.

Most unique of all was their respiratory system. The Sectoids breathed through their skin, very much like amphibians. The presence of a huge number of blood capillaries at the epithelium of their skin led to this discovery, and also accounted for the tremendous amount of bleeding that they suffered from even from a mere flesh wound. Examination of lung tissue and Sectoid blood further showed that the gray ones breathed the same basic oxygen-nitrogen mix humans required, although probably not in the same proportions. Their lungs appeared to have a much higher rate of affinity for oxygen, allowing them to survive for an extended period without respiring. Still, there was much unknown about the Sectoids, like what they ate, for example. Without a live specimen, everything Science dredged up so far would be nothing more than hypothesises.

Best of all, as it turned out, was that modern technology had allowed for enough miniaturization to create a viable laser weapon. A laser works by the principle of stimulated emission of radiation. This means that energy is fed into some medium, causing its constituent atoms to absorb this energy and thus become excited. High energy states are by nature extremely unstable, and the atoms quickly decompose into a more stable, unexcited state. In the process, they release the surplus energy as a unidirectional wave; this coherent beam of light is the laser beam.

This original laser is, of course, of extremely low power and must be amplified before it can be put to any serious work. The conventional lasers used in heavy industries are mostly solid state or gaseous lasers, meaning that the amplification medium is either a solid rod of metal or crystal, or a gas.

The main problem with this was that to generate enough laser power for a military application, one required a huge amplification medium. Solid state lasers turned out to be plain heavy and bulky, and gaseous ones were expensive. Furthermore, the fact that lasers were light also proved a problem with range; light is subject to diffraction, and therefore a laser might have lost much of its destructive potential before reaching its target, if fired in cloudy conditions.

The most promising of these lasers was the new chemical oxygen-iodine laser (COIL), first invented at the Phillips Laboratory in 1977. Hydrogen peroxide and potassium hydroxide are injected into an amplification chamber, which is then flooded with chlorine gas and iodine. This mixture generates a laser that operates at the optimum infrared wavelength of 1.315 microns. The original baseline demonstration laser module BDL-2 demonstrated by TRW in August 1996 had yielded power levels in the hundred kilowatt range.

X-Com had taken this several steps further in developing a vehicle-mounted laser system. By recycling chemicals, building with plastics and a unique cooling system, the massive BDL-2 had been shrunken down into a far lighter and efficient model, while boosting its power by over 400% since its inception. Further integration of advanced aerospace materials into the design of critical hardware components had reduced the size even further.

In stark contrast with most lasers, the COIL system was a startlingly 80% efficient, allowing a series linking of multiple laser modules to create a single, super-high energy laser with power levels measured in megawatts. Much more of a problem was countering the myth that lasers were self-renewing; while this was true of some lasers, like the new atomic bromine laser which could run off sunlight, the COIL used physical fuel in the form of its constituent chemicals. There really was no way around this at the current point in time; even recycling the chemicals involved, the COIL vehicular system allowed only 80 shots to be fired before the entire assembly ran dry.

Even more troublesome was the recoil factor. Firing a laser generated no recoil, since it was light-based. However, in the case of the COIL, there was recoil coming from the venting of waste gases as the output beam was created. This presented an interesting problem during the actual design of the weapon.

With the entire assembly fitted snugly into an external weapons pod fully fifteen feet long, the laser could be mounted on any a hardpoint in any combat aircraft, or could be substituted for the main gun assembly in a tank or similar vehicle. As such, X-Com had requisitioned a pair of F/A-18 Hornets and F-14 Tomcats from the Area 51 base to be retrofitted with the new laser pods. A major setback was the sheer weight of the pods; weighing a hefty sixteen tons each, the laser pods would drastically reduce the gross payload of any aircraft equipped with it.

The X-Com modified aerofighters each could carry only a single laser pod, and that reduced the Hornets to carrying an additional pair of Aim-9M sidewinders plus the usual 675 rounds of Vulcan cannon ammunition. Configured for long-range combat as opposed to the Hornets, the Tomcats each got a pair of Aim-120 AMRAAMs, along with the usual load of cannon rounds.

The science division was still working on shrinking the lasers enough to make them man-portable, but that seemed a remote possibility at present. A more promising approach had been to fit a laser pod on to a remote guided vehicular platform. The X-Com Heavy Weapons Platform HWP-L was no more than an armoured box on wheels, holding a load of targeting equipment. Hidden safely away from enemy fire, an operator would drive the HWP-L by means of a combination of microwave and infrared signals. A camera mounted on the HWP-L would give real-time battlefield views, and the GPS locator built into its hull would provide its exact location at any given time. The modularity of the heavy weapons pod allowed it to be swapped with a minimum of fuss, even under battlefield conditions. X-Com operators had a variety of weapons at their disposal, from the laser pod to a G.E. minigun, and even an eight-shot Mistral anti-tank missile launcher.

Another promising vector was the viability of using alien weapons; so far, the combat teams had picked up three distinct variants of the energy weapons the aliens used. One was a pistol-like implement, not unlike the P-88 Robert favoured for close combat. The other two were like the XCR combat rifles, although one was far too massive to be called a mere combat rifle; combat cannon would have suited its description better. All three had ammunition magazines containing a faintly glowing type of bullet, which the scientists were currently in the process of dissecting.

Ivan hoped that the scientists would produce results quickly. X-Com needed every single advantage it could muster against their alien intruders.

  


The X-Com combat teams spent that the month training hard. Team Shark was flown over from Base Avalon to the Area 51 base for that explicit purpose. They drilled in close assault and fire support roles, taking the time to work out the various idiosyncrasies of every individual member. All too soon, their abilities were put to the test.

The proximity alert had sounded at 07:14 hours, sending the combat teams racing for the Skyranger. It was a tight squeeze with all the equipment, with Team Rattler right at the rear of the aircraft. They had lifted off immediately, and Colonel Wolf commenced the briefing while they were still in the air.

"This will be a test for our new laser cannon," he said. "We got this one on radar all of ten minutes ago, and we're tracking it via satellite; we've got a pair of AWACS around there as well. Area 51 has already launched our fly boys, and they should have visual in another minute or so."

He toggled the radio controls then, flooding the Skyranger with the chatter of the X-Com pilots as they neared their target.

  


The intercept team consisted of the X-Com aircraft, as well as six more F-16s bearing conventional weaponry. If the X-Com pilots ran into trouble, the F-16s would have to take the UFO down. Right now, they held back to give the lasers a chance for a real test.

The Hornets blasted on ahead of the Tomcats, their weaponry more uniquely suited for a close-in engagement than the AMRAAMs carried by their peers. Informed of any course changes by X-Com base command and the AWACS surveillance aircraft, the four aerofighters homed in relentlessly on their extraterrestrial prey. As if disdainful of her pursuers, the UFO continued sedately on its course, not even bothering to take evasive manoeuvres.

"Beta Flight, Alpha One. We have visual, range approximately two nautical miles. Over."

"Alpha One, Beta One. Roger that, be joining you in a bit. Over."

"Beta Flight, Alpha One. Out."

Smiling at the breach of protocol, Alpha One put his laser pod on-line. The brass wanted to see how effective the lasers would be, but Captain Harris Stamford was a traditionalist; he very much preferred old-fashioned missiles to the new toy he carried.

Oh well, he reflected ruefully. Mine not to reason why, mine not to question why, mine but to do or die. Preferably not, of course. At least the target was not bothering to evade, or firing back, so his job was that much easier.

"Alpha Two, One. Firing laser."

"Alpha One, Two. Roger, firing laser."

  


Electricity pulsed, triggering the Q-switches controlling the chemical storage tanks. The first set of Q-switches allowed a pre-calculated quantity of hydrogen peroxide and potassium hydroxide to escape their respective containers. As the aqueous mixture of liquids churned roughly into the mixing chamber, a jet of chlorine gas was injected to precipitate the desired chemical reaction. Outside the mixing assembly, the cooling system also started, flooding its various conduits with liquid nitrogen. Pumps began moving the liquid nitrogen, albeit sluggishly at first.

Milliseconds into this process, an excited state of molecular oxygen was released. Potassium chloride and water vapour were generated as by-products. Because water vapour interfered with the laser gas kinetics, it was rapidly removed by employing an inert copper-based desiccating agent.

The third set of Q-switches fired then, blasting molecular iodine into the reaction. A part of the energy from the excited oxygen was used to dissociate the iodine, then resonant energy transfer from the excited oxygen to the atomic iodine excited the iodine. At this point, another set of Q-switches toggled, and the gas flow was directed into an expansion nozzle, accelerating it to a supersonic velocity and creating the laser gain region. Light was extracted from a laser cavity positioned transverse to the gas flow, and the exhaust gases were scrubbed to remove residual iodine and chlorine before being vented.

Each individual laser beam was rated at only a hundred kilowatts. But the coupling of four such lasers in series boosted the power output by slightly less than 400%, producing a maximum yield of only a little less than 400 kilowatts. Considering that any laser with a power output exceeding 0.5 watts was considered hazardous by federal regulations, the X-Com combat laser was in a class all of its own.

Running through all this took all of 2.67 seconds, an eternity in the world of computing. This delay was noticeable to Captain Harris as a slight delay between depressing the trigger and seeing the results. He gritted his teeth impatiently and decided there and then to stick to missiles for the rest of his life.

With a high-pitched whine that cut through even the roar of his jet turbines, the lasers fired. Silvery-white energy gushed forth in a brilliant beam, blinding even through the protective aviation goggles. Dimly, Harris recalled the science geeks telling him that the lasers themselves would travel too quickly to register on his brain, and what he really 'saw' was only the ionization of the air left behind by the coherent light.

A main problem with any consideration to use a laser as a weapon was how to couple the laser energy with the target. In order to cause damage to a target, the target must be able to absorb the laser energy. Since laser radiation is absorbed typically at or near the target surface, the laser must penetrate deeper to cause any structural damage. With some of it being inevitably reflected, this could turn out to be a real problem.

As it were, even the alien alloy failed to stand up to five seconds worth of approximately 400 kilowatts of laser power. The metal at the point of contact vaporized immediately, and the laser ate further into the hull. The energy filtered into the internal structure of the UFO, superheating the metal and turning it into molten streams of silver. As Captain Harris closed the distance between the target and his aircraft, he could see ragged holes in the UFO, the edges still red-hot.

"Base, Alpha Flight. The lasers work." Harris could barely stop himself from laughing in relief. "Target looks severely damaged, but still ... um, fly-able. Over."

He took the Hornet close to the mutilated UFO, his wingman close behind. There was a startling tone from his missile warning system then, the whine that no pilot likes to hear. Instincts took over; barking a warning over the radio, Harris wretched his aircraft sharply to the side, simultaneously ejecting chaff. The gee forces slammed him into his seat, and as he turned, a sizzling bolt of green lightning came perilously close to connecting with his fuselage.

"Alpha One, Two. Status? Over." The alarmed voice of his wingman came buzzing over the radio.

Captain Harris smartly banked right, then pulled up sharply. "Alpha Two, One. I'm OK, although I don't want to ..."

The missile lock tone screamed again, and Harris banked left desperately. Another bolt of green fire ate through the air just meters away from his left wing. With some trepidation, he noted the wing charring slightly from the close impact.

"Damned, those beams are _hot_. Any closer than that, and I'd have lost the wing anyway. Watch for missile-lock tones, the bad guys seem to be using radar to lock-on."

His wingman never had the chance to acknowledge. The alien vessel launched a blistering fusillade of bright green lances just then. Alpha Two turned and twisted, but was transfixed by a quartet of energy bolts in rapid succession.

Harris screamed as Alpha Two disintegrated in a ball of flame.

"You son of a bitch!"

Harris wretched the fighter back on track behind the alien craft. At this range, it was feasible to use the Vulcan cannons. The targeting system did everything it could to facilitate a successful hit on an acquired target, and Harris had no trouble hitting a target the size of a small barn. Half the rounds in the Vulcan were tracers, and the cannon was capable of firing them at almost a hundred per second. The result was a streak of green-yellow light, visible even in broad daylight, that looked like a laser beam in some science-fiction movie.

Rounds sparked off the UFO exterior, doing nothing more than scratching the alien metal. The answering burst of artificial lightning tore into Harris's Hornet and ripped off a wing.

"Alpha Flight is down!" Harris screamed into the comm-net. "Beta Flight, it's up to you ..."

A second burst of green power arrived then, and Harris and his aircraft exploded spectacularly in the clear skies.

  


Five nautical miles away, Beta Flight already had the UFO on radar. Harris's last transmission still echoed in their ears.

"Beta Two, One. Lock status? Over."

"Beta One, Two. Have tone. Over."

"Beta Two, One. Roger that, fire at will. Out."

Taking her own advice, Beta One tightened her grip on the trigger. The AMRAAM dropped from its pylon, the active radar homing guidance system in the warhead immediately coming on-line. The missile 'saw' its target this way, and rapidly accelerated to its maximum speed of 4680 km/h. Moments later, the second AMRAAM did exactly the same.

"You'll pay for that," Beta One whispered to herself.

On tails of fire, two pairs of 3.7 metre rockets of death sped towards the UFO.

  


They arrived one after another, in rapid succession. Remarkably, the UFO turned to present an undamaged profile to the incoming missiles, the ungainly craft seemingly having an inordinate amount of aerial manoeuvrability. The first AMRAAM plowed straight into the hull, but did nothing other than blacken the surface. The second missile did not enjoy much success, either. Blackened but unbowed, the UFO struggled on its way.

That was when the last two missiles arrived. Aim-120 AMRAAMs had warheads containing proximity- and contact-fused pre-fragmented high explosives, weighing in at a massive 23 kilos. The missiles slammed into the weakened hull, and the initial explosion tore away the remaining armour over the internal hull structure. Fuelled by the explosive blast, shards of red-hot metal were propelled into the interior of the UFO, slicing apart anything they came into contact with. The detonation ignited the remaining solid propellant in the propulsion system, spreading incandescent flame all over the blackened hull.

Losing altitude rapidly, the UFO somehow managed a complete 360-degree turn on its axis before righting itself. Oily, black smoke poured from its wounds, and with an entire side wreathed in flame, the UFO plummeted earthwards.

Tracking the falling UFO, Beta Flight pinpointed the crash location and reported that back to base. At approximately two thousand feet, Beta One clinically noted the release of several spherical objects. This was sent along to the Area 51 base, and subsequently relayed to Wolf's teams on the Skyranger.

Rapidly deciding to make sure that the target stayed down, Beta One had the trailing flight of F-16s arm their Sidewinders and close in for the kill.

Moments later, six missiles streaked towards the crippled alien vessel, and impacted at a velocity of over 2850 km/h. The UFO disintegrated under the impact, and its remains were distributed over a two mile area.

Her work done, Beta Flight turned around and headed for home.

Captain Harris Stamford and his wingman would be remembered, Beta One vowed.

  


Already airborne, the Skyranger acknowledged the information on the alien craft's released pods the instant it was received. A slight change in their current flight path set them headed straight for the UFO-seeded zone. Within eight minutes, the Skyranger burned its way back through the lower atmosphere, landing two kilometers from the target region.

The minute the deployment ramp was half-open, the combat teams moved out of the Skyranger. Robert took the two meter drop to the ground, running forward towards the nose of the Skyranger and the forward landing struts. Drake mirrored his movement opposite him. Both dropped into a defensive crouch, XCRs held at the ready.

Behind at the ramp, Mariko and Monique had taken up similar positions at the lower landing supports. Ivan and Pieter had hit the ground running, moving twenty meters away from the Skyranger and dropping prone. With their overwatch team in place, Wolf disembarked with the rest of the combat team in tow. As senior officer present, he assumed command of both combat teams.

The combat teams off the craft, the Skyranger took off again, ready to return and pick up the troops for immediate dust-off once Wolf gave the 'evac' signal. Amidst the rising cloud of desert dust, the two battle groups moved to establish a perimeter. Sergeant Ricardo Heras muscled his heavy cannon into position, providing their heavy fire support. Half of his team carried LAWs, and despite the bulky device hanging from their backs, they arrayed themselves around Rick in a rough semi-circle almost twenty meters in radius. As the only one present with a powerful Hensoldt Wetzlar telescopic sight, Team Beta sniper's initial role would be to scan for any hostiles before they came within XCR range. He already had permission to engage any incoming enemies with the potent Heckler and Koch PSG-1 rifle the scope was mounted upon. The F-16s from the aerial intercept team remained behind to supply whatever air support they could.

A preliminary scrutiny of the surrounding landscape came up blank; the environment was arid desert, and there was simply no place to hide. Softly curving sand dunes provided what scant cover there was, almost most of the land was flat. Ivan could see for miles around, even without the benefit of a telescopic sight. The site of the main UFO wreckage sent a column of greasy, black smoke high up into the atmosphere.

"They will run to the nearest friendly location," Wolf predicted. "I don't pretend to know where that is, or even what it might be, but that's the only logical choice. That's what the Brit boys did in the Gulf War when they got shot down."

Robert nodded with pride. One British SAS team had been shot apart by Iraqi forces during the Gulf War. Wounded, with limited amounts of food and water, the sole survivor had trekked over miles of barren desert and enemies to cross over the Iraqi border to safety. He had accomplished that by hiding during the day and moving during the night, avoiding Iraqi patrols.

The immediate vicinity given the all-clear, the two combat teams began moving out, headed towards the direction of the downed alien craft. Robert took point, as usual, quickly vanishing from sight of the massed X-Com troopers as he scouted on ahead. The rest of them shouldered their weapons and followed behind.

The sun was already beginning to beat down with a relentless intensity found only in deserts. Sipping from his water canteen, Ivan slipped on his sun-goggles to cut down on the glare. The squads moved forward in unison, leap-frogging through positions and effectively covering each other. It did not take them long to find the first alien seed, a spherical pod fashioned of the now-familiar silvery alien metal. It had obviously split apart some time prior to its discovery, parting on hidden hinges so it lay open like some obscene clam. The interior was filled with a strange, gray mucus, with ropy intestines of a bilious green threading through it. A trail of that mucus led away from the pod, rapidly petering out in the ever-shifting desert sands.

"Some form of deployment device," Robert surmised.

The main bulk of the shattered UFO lay slightly over half a kilometre ahead. Even from this distance, it was quite obvious that this particular UFO was far larger than anything they had ever encountered. It was equally obvious that nothing could have survived the crash; it was barely more than hunk of broken, charred metal with smoke still billowing forth from it. Bits and pieces of the craft were littered all over the desert floor here, and the rest of the pods that the UFO released prior to crashing were also within easy range.

The X-Com soldiers automatically established a battle perimeter over a hundred meters in radius. With Team Rattler on overwatch, Wolf gathered his team into a smaller, inner perimeter surrounding one of the alien deployment pods. This one had rather painfully mis-deployed, as was immediately evident. The outer shell was cracked clean through from the sheer impact, and it oozed purple fluids all over the desert sand. It was broken open partially, as if some vengeful god had tried to twist it open instead of using the hinges.

What caught the attention of the team immediately was the sight of the dull, black lobster-like claw hanging out of the pod. It was connected to an arm, which fed back into a ebony thorax that seemed to absorb even the harsh desert sunlight. The rest of the creature was mercifully concealed in the ruins of its makeshift coffin.

"A new type of insect," Robert observed softly.

Wolf counted eight of the pods, although only this one seemed to have mis-deployed. A quick check revealed the other pods as completely empty. The wind had since then erased any alien-made tracks. Frowning, Wolf had Ivan pull up the Port-a-Map system. In moments, the GPS satellite overhead pin-pointed their exact location within two meters. The two surveyed the digital display of an area over two hundred miles across.

"Here," Wolf tapped a finger against the hard casing of the field digital map system. Weighing only slightly over two kilograms, it was basically a processor which could upload GPS co-ordinates and maps into a video display screen. The current image showed a small habitat only twelve kilometers to the south.

Ivan looked questioningly at the Colonel.

"They will head there," Wolf explained. "It provides an ample supply of water, and plenty of shade. We'll take the Skyranger, and leave this mess to the recovery teams."

  


The trip took less than ten minutes, since the short distance did not warrant a suborbital drop. The teams landed a kilometre out from the 'village', and the team pathfinders went on ahead to scout. The rest of the combat teams deployed around the small gathering of stone and thatch huts, the empty desert terrain allowing them clear fields of fire, although there was slightly more cover here - in the form of small shrubs and brushes - than in the deep desert.

The X-Com soldiers immediately began a discrete entrenchment, digging themselves shallow burrows in the sand, lining those burrows with a thin poncho and stretching a second one across the top to form a 'roof'. The khaki-coloured material effectively hid them from sight as they crawled between the makeshift bashas, with only the muzzles of their weapons showing.

It was a rather pretty location, in a romantic, rural sort of way. There were only three of the huts, tiny affairs that were little more than four walls with a roof. They lay next to a small watering hole, an open pool barely twenty meters across. A well protruded from the ground next to one of the shacks, and there were camels tethered to a post. Tall trees without significant leaf cover stood at rigid attention at a dozen random positions, casting their meagre shade around. A battered pick-up truck sat forlornly in a corner, baking in the sun.

The place was very much alive. The X-Com troops counted half a dozen men and women moving around the area, minding their own business. They talked and laughed like any other human beings would, completely unassuming. If they had heard the sound of the Skyranger on its approach, they gave no sound that they were bothered. There were no signs of aliens anywhere.

A soft crackle came from Wolf's throat mike. He thumbed the headset on and spoke in a faint whisper. "Shark Leader. Proceed, over."

"Shark Leader, Rattler Sniper. See something at building at north-east quadrant."

The area was divided into nine quadrants, corresponding to the main compass points and a central reference point. Wolf drew the map in his mind and quickly found the building in question. But without a telescopic sight, he would not be able to see any details. He had to rely on Rattler Sniper to tell him verbally.

"Rattler Sniper, go on. Over."

"There's some greenish stuff on the ground, just in front of the doorway. Looks like the blood the techies say the aliens use. Over."

"Pan around and see if you can find some more evidence, out."

There was a minute or two of hesitation as Rattler Sniper complied.

"Shark Leader, Rattler Sniper. There's the same stuff on the wall as well, if you look carefully. Looks like somebody was cleaning up after some bleeding aliens. Over."

"Roger, Rattler Sniper. Out."

Wolf made his decision quickly. Knowing that the observations made by Rattler Sniper had been overheard by everyone in the combat teams, he began giving orders.

"Rattler Leader, you have command. Acknowledge, over."

"Shark Leader, Rattler Leader. Acknowledged, over."

"Shark SAW, overwatch. Over."

"Shark Leader, Shark SAW. On overwatch. Over." Overwatch meant that Drake would now pump bullets into any target that he did not recognize as a friendly.

"Shark Team, commence assault in pairs. Weapons are fire-free, but be careful, there are civilians about. Maintain radio silence. Acknowledge, over."

As the various team members reported affirmative, Wolf moved silently out of his burrow. He moved in a half-crouch, the XCR held to his shoulder. The gray hue of the armour was not easily visible against the sand unless the observer was at close range, but Wolf still felt horribly exposed. It was a good forty meters to the nearest hut, and he alternated between leap-frogging for cover and taking a prone position.

He fetched up against the stone wall of the shack, still crouching down. Voices filtered out through an open window, and Wolf cursed the fact that he did not understand any Spanish. He waited a moment for Ivan to join him, then signalled a slow crawl to the corner of the hut facing the building Rattler Sniper had mentioned. Mariko and Monique had come in from that direction, and they were approaching the open doorway.

Wolf kept an eye on them long enough for Mariko to signal him with a thumb's up sign; she had verified that Rattler Sniper had really seen alien blood at the entrance to the building. He pulled back around the corner, and nodded at Ivan. Wolf sidled up to a window corner, ignoring the muted murmurs from the occupants inside. Slowly, he raised his head to peek just above the sill.

The interior consisted of a single room, with a table set in the middle and benches arrayed around it. Pots and pans hung from hooks set in the walls, and there was a small stove set in a corner. Two men sat at the table, talking softly and occasionally nodding at a point well-made by the other. But it was the weapons that drew the attention of the Colonel. There were a pair of assault rifles propped up against the wall next to the stove. They were standard U.S.-issue M16A2s, the semi-automatic variety that one could purchase off the shelf.

Wolf withdrew. There was nothing too unusual about having weapons in such a place; living in the desert, one did not have police forces available to draw upon, and hence must provide one's own security and safety. But the simple fact that they were using military-grade weapons blurred things. He would expect more conventional arms, in the view that they were cheaper. Military arms tended to be on the expensive side.

In any case, what were these folks doing out in the desert? The nearest highway was a good fifty-odd kilometers away. Far enough to ensure privacy, yet also far enough that the echo from a gun report would not be noticed. There was the pick-up to provide transportation, as well.

Across by the second hut, Pieter and Robert had come across a similar dead end. Their designated target building was a small storehouse, and a woman was in the process of cleaning it out with a stout broom. A pistol hung at her hip, but apart from that, there was nothing noteworthy in the room. A couple of sacks were piled neatly in two columns, and a small, wooden box lay next to them. It was labelled 'dynamite'.

Outside the third hut, where the alien blood had been spotted, Monique and Mariko had withdrawn to the far side of the building, facing away from the rest of the 'village'. There was a strange, sweet odour wafting out from the interior. Similarly hazarding a look over the sill, Mariko finally found what they were looking for.

It was a new type of alien, standing barely five and a half feet tall, but all of that compacted into what seemed to be muscle. It looked like the ancient nagas of legend, a mighty snake with the torso of a man. The face was a terrible mix of hominid and reptile, broad and flat with the tips of fangs protruding from its closed mouth. It gave off an odour like mildew.

There was another one of those on the floor. This alien had a bandaged arm, and there was a large gash in its side that was still dripping green ichor. A woman knelt next to it, calmly stitching the wound together with needle and thread. Ignoring the hisses of pain from the creature, she methodically closed the injury. This must be the alien that had left the trail.

Near the doorway stood two men, clutching rifles and looking on nervously. They spoke in Spanish, apparently asking about the condition of the patient. The woman medic replied with a rapid barrage, obvious in tone if not in intent. The snake-like alien looked on passively, seemingly above the petty bickering. It had a pistol-like device strapped to a hip.

Mariko slid back out of view, and smiled grimly at Monique. She pointed at herself, then held up three fingers, and then pointed at the sky and held up two fingers. She pulled a grenade canister from her webbing, slowly unscrewing the lid so that it would make no noise, then fisted the fragmentation round.

Monique understood; three humans, two aliens, and all about to get blown sky-high. The civilians were not innocent, in this case. She toggled her throat mike once to signal the attack, then dove to the side as Mariko chucked the grenade in through the window.

  


Across from Mariko and Monique, Wolf and Ivan noted the attack signal. The aliens had been found. As one, they rose and pointed the muzzles of their XCRs through the window. Wolf took the first man out with a single bullet through his back, the high-powered round tearing through flesh and bone and finally ricocheting off the stone wall the man was facing. Even as he was catapulted forward by the impact to crash his chest violently against the table edge, Ivan put a bullet through the other man's face.

"Clear." Ivan reported.

  


When the attack signal came through, Robert once again put away his XCR in favour of the P-88 he always carried. He figured that they might want the woman alive, and a round from the pistol might put her out of commission but not kill her. Pieter had circled around the building, and was out of sight around the corner. Robert counted silently to three, and when the distinctive crack of the XCRs cut through the air, he rose up and sighted in on the woman over the window sill. She had turned around upon hearing the rifle reports, drawing her pistol as she did so, and running towards the exit. Robert put one round expertly through her left shoulder, a wound designed to incapacitate and not kill.

The 9mm Parabellum embedded itself in her shoulder joint. The impact knocked her spinning into the door frame. The woman crashed into it full tilt, and rebounded with blood gushing from her nose. She dropped to the ground, moaning, the pistol falling from her nerveless fingers. Pieter came through the doorway then, and quickly kicked the pistol into one corner of the room.

"Clear," he sounded.

  


Stone alone would probably be insufficient to stop a grenade blast cold, so Mariko threw herself to the side and fell prone after she had delivered the grenade. A few moments later, there was a startled cry as the occupants suddenly realized what had been thrown into their midst. There was a mad scramble as they tried desperately to get out before the grenade exploded.

The force of the blast cracked the walls, although fortunately, they were much tougher than they looked. There were screams from within, which ended rather abruptly. Mariko picked herself up, and risked a glance through the window, her XCR muzzle preceding her.

The grenade had disintegrated almost everything in the room. There were bits and pieces of alien and human all over the place, and the walls were now charred from the explosion. One of the men had actually made it through the doorway before the grenade went off, and she could see him lying face down in the ground through the door. His right arm was a ragged mass of shredded flesh. Her stomach lurching, Mariko knew that the man would probably die of shock, if he was not already dead. Monique turned the corner just then and saw the effects of Mariko's handiwork. A quick check showed that the man was still breathing, though just barely. There was nothing much that she could do, only ease the pain of his passing. Filling a syringe full of morphine, Monique plunged it into the man's undamaged left shoulder and pushed the plunger. For a moment, his breath caught as a sense of well-being flooded his body, then he died peacefully.

She looked up to see Mariko coming towards the her. Monique drew a finger across her throat, and the Japanese woman nodded in comprehension. They entered the wreckage of the room with XCRs leading, although there was nothing left to retrieve.

"Clear," Monique called.

  


Minutes later, the combat team propped their prisoner down in the kitchen building, her wound dressed. She would say nothing, despite the pain registering across her features. They left her with Monique watching over her, and went to search the rest of the stone shacks.

In the storeroom, Pieter drew his combat knife and slit open one of the sacks. There was a kind of metallic orange material inside. It looked remarkably like a larger version of the tiny amounts contained inside the alien weapon bullets that were under investigation back at X-Com base. The techies had reported no significant radiation emissions from those, and so Pieter assumed that these were safe. With Ivan giving a hand, they hauled the sacks outside and left them there. The box labelled 'dynamite' contained grenade-like capsules, although these did not have any visible trigger or pins. Pieter took the box outside as well, and left it standing safely far from the stone buildings.

Hidden under the sacks was a trapdoor made of wood with a pull-ring mounted on top. Ivan and Pieter pointed their weapons at it while Robert lifted it open, hurriedly falling to the side. Nothing came blasting out of it, so he took a glimpse down the revealed aperture. There was a ramp leading down, made of the argent alien metal. It fed an underground corridor, leading off to some unknown destination. Alien lights placed at regular intervals provided a dim, whitish-green illumination.

Wolf motioned for Robert to replace Ivan on overwatch, then drew the Russian outside. He gave instructions to the Russian to notify X-Com HQ, then called in Team Rattler and rapidly explained the situation. They had, possibly, an alien base right under their feet, and that required investigation. Wolf had their air support re-directed to the combat teams' current position. In the event of a catastrophic disaster, the F-16s had orders to bomb the entire vicinity into rubble. Going back inside, Wolf had Robert and one of the LAW-toting Team Rattler soldiers move down into the corridor for a preliminary look. The corridor led on for about another ten meters before branching left and right. The Colonel took his team and went left.

Team Rattler took the right, with Ishiyama in the lead, and two more of his men trailing behind. Cannon-bearing Ricardo plopped himself down squarely in the branch, while Rattler Sniper - Corporal Leonard Anderson - set up shop next to him. Everyone else got left upstairs.

  


Their branch of the corridor headed straight for another twenty or so meters, gradually broadening out until it terminated in a set of double doors. Wolf triggered the standard control pad next to the doors, and with a sigh, the doors began sliding open. Robert went prone facing the door, while the others flattened themselves to the sides. The minute the doors opened fully, they leapt around the door frame into the room beyond.

They found themselves facing a single Sectoid. In the centre of the room, there was an upraised pedestal with a glowing half-sphere mounted upon it. The sides of the pedestal were engraved with dimly lit alien hieroglyphics, and the Sectoid was standing next to one side, apparently manning the device.

It gave a squeak of surprise, then fumbled to bring some weapon to bear. Wolf dashed forward and cracked it in the skull with the butt of his XCR. The alien stumbled back, and that gave Robert time enough to draw his U.S. Marine-issue K-Bar combat knife. He flipped it expertly into the alien, putting ten inches of stainless steel smack in the middle of its chest. The Sectoid croaked once before sagging to the ground, leaking green blood.

  


Ishiyama and his group found a similar door at the end of their corridor, although there was a single side door to the left as well. He was far more cautious than Wolf was, though. He had his men cover both doors, then he crept forward to place an ear against the side door. The alien metal muted much of the sound passing through it, but he did hear a rough rumbling of the sort associated with angry sergeants chewing apart hapless recruits.

Motioning his men to cover this doorway, Ishiyama took a deep breath and threw the door switch. It hissed open quietly, revealing a medium-sized room about four meters square. Two of the walls were etched with alien control panels, and the third was a wall-sized screen with a very recognizable world map upon it.

There were three aliens in the room. Two of them were the snake-like ones Mariko had said she had encountered. The last one was a massive green-skinned monster - the Incredible Hulk, Ishiyama thought wildly - which sat in a comfortable-looking chair. The chair was floating placidly some three feet above the floor. The big brute was spitting out harsh words in the alien tongue, while the two snakemen somehow managed to look rather ashamed of themselves. All three glanced up as the door slid open.

Ishiyama did not wait to see anymore.

"Fire at will!"

Three XCRs opened up, high-powered bullets ripping into the aliens. One snakeman took twelve rounds in the flank, and was dead before it flopped to the floor. The other was partially shielded by the dying snakeman, and ripped a pistol from its holster. Crimson energy flashed, and one of Ishiyama's soldiers fell with a smoking hole in his chest. Hastily corrected fire took its head off in the next few moments.

The green-skin took six rounds without flinching. It surged out of its chair, roaring a war-cry. The sound was shatteringly loud in the confined chamber. It bunched fists the size of hams and launched itself at Ishiyama.

Ignoring the bullets directed at it, the alien swung a fist at Ishiyama. The major dodged, and the fist impacted on the wall behind him, denting the solid alien metal. Wincing at the thought of what such a blow would do to unarmoured flesh, Ishiyama beat a hasty retreat. 

Even worse, the main double doors had started opening. Apparently, there had been other aliens within earshot. The two X-Com soldiers fell back away from the enraged green-skinned alien. Behind them, Ricardo and Leonard had heard the sounds of conflict, and were coming to join the battle. The doors opened fully, revealing one snakeman standing ready, framing itself in the doorway. Behind it, there were several others, spaced out some distance away in what appeared to be a large room. The emerald monster screamed out battle orders, moving itself out of the way. That was hardly necessary; the first snake soldier took one look at the X-Com combat team, and began firing.

Fortunately for Ishiyama, the first shots were more enthusiastic than accurate. Azure energy bolts splashed against the walls, floor and ceiling but miraculously missed both of them. The pair back-pedalled frantically as enemy fire began to get more accurate; a bolt glanced from the ground right where Ishiyama's foot was a moment ago.

Behind them, Ricardo and Leonard hefted their weapons and returned fire. Fitting his eye to the scope, the sniper sent a volley of shots down the corridor, taking apart one snakeman in a priceless head shot. Then Ricardo opened up with the heavy cannon.

Similar to the Heckler and Koch machine grenade launcher, the heavy cannon could spit out explosives with great precision. It was essentially a man-portable automatic grenade launcher. Ricardo did not need to aim; collateral damage from the grenades he fired would be more than enough against soft targets.

He emptied the first clip in a hurry, varying the angles from which he fired. The grenades were impact detonated, and the resulting series of explosions almost knocked him from his feet. There were screams from the aliens, and a few of them rallied enough to shoot back. Ricardo ejected the spent clip and tried to fumble another one into place while he moved backwards.

As smoke and debris filled the corridor and reduced visibility to zero, Ishiyama grabbed his team-mate ... only to find a lucky, stray shot had left his groin a smoking ruin. The trooper was long dead from the shock. The major scrambled to his feet and made a run for it.

With Ricardo struggling with his heavy weapon, Leonard - Leo, to his friends - let his team leader run past him, then began firing blindly into the smoky haze. The PSG-1 was a dedicated sniper weapon, but it was a semi-automatic rifle. Firing in two round bursts, the rifle weighed a hefty eighteen pounds. Despite being designed as a position weapon, it came equipped with a sling. Leo was grateful for the sling as he fired the rifle in a way that the designers never meant for it to be used.

Firing from the hip, Leo held the trigger down, sending bullets racing down the corridor. Unable to see his enemies, he was sure he was missing with every single round he fired. Fortunately, the reverse was also true, and the returning enemy fire never got anywhere close to him, either. Just behind him, Ricardo finally racked the slide on his heavy cannon. Leo emptied the rest of his magazine, then began falling back with Ricardo, the heavy cannon occasionally thundering out a grenade.

At the junction, they were met by Wolf coming back down the corridor with his fire team. The Colonel grabbed a LAW from one missile-toting trooper and handed it to Ishiyama.

"LAW the suckers," he told the major.

The Japanese man grinned fiendishly before hefting the one-shot weapon. Meant as an anti-tank weapon with an armour piercing warhead, Ishiyama had no illusions about what it would do to alien flesh. He stepped around the corner, and dropped into a crouch. The rest of the team ducked away from the back-blast as he lifted the LAW to his shoulder and sighted. A pull of the trigger and the rocket sped away.

Ishiyama hurriedly ditched the empty LAW and dove for cover around the junction.

The ensuing explosion rocked the ground and spilled those standing from their feet. Ears ringing with the concussion, Wolf motioned for the surviving intruder team members to follow him.

"I am never doing something like that again," Ishiyama groaned as he hauled himself to his feet. Shaking his spinning head, he unlimbered his XCR and followed Wolf around the junction corner. The entire corridor was a mess. The metallic walls had partially caved-in, and rock and gravel had spilled into the corridor. Fires burned intermittently, feeding on the bodies of the dead aliens. Nothing moved in the semi-darkness.

Wolf moved around the wreckage, Ishiyama and Robert in tow. They came to the room where Ishiyama had found the green-skinned beast, although the wall with the door in it had been completely blown inwards. There simply was no wall separating room from corridor anymore. They found the alien hulk buried deep under the rubble, amazingly still moving weakly. It spat and snarled feebly at them, although it was all too clear that it was no longer a threat. Robert put the creature out of its misery with a rifle round.

Walking into the room behind the double doors, they saw a similar scene of destruction. It was a big room, with elevator tracks running skywards on the wall at the far end. On that presumable elevator platform, there rested the closest thing that Wolf had ever seen resembling an alien ground transport. It looked like a UPS van without the wheels, and made of the alien metal. Several snakemen who had been in the room when the LAW went off had decorated the transport with their guts.

Wolf surveyed the whole apparatus with interest.

"I think the recovery teams are going to have a very long day."


	6. Reaching Tendrils

Chapter 6  
  
Professor Paul McNeilly sighed and put his feet up on his desk. Head of the ten-strong Xenophysiology Section of the X-Com Science Division, he had been part of the outfit since the very beginning, when X-Com had only been a half-baked research division under the government 'black' project listings. Standing at a tall six feet, the man had just celebrated his fifty-fourth birthday. The greying hair made him more distinguished and elegant, and he had almost lost the Irish accent of his homeland. Paul wondered if the U.S. government would allow him to return to his beloved Ireland when the time came for him to retire. Probably not, he thought sourly. He knew far too much.  
Paul turned his attention to the report he had just discarded on his desk. Classified: Eyes Only, the plain manila folder proclaimed. Security certainly did not come any higher than that, he knew. Inside were the various autopsy reports of the three species of aliens they had encountered so far. The Sectoids were hardly disturbing, except that their over-sized craniums suggested a far greater intelligence than humans, possibly even displaying advanced psychic capabilities. Psi-Tech might want to employ them, Paul thought to himself. The company had been formed from a disbanded World War II secret unit which had been used for spying purposes using technical remote viewing. It was like telepathy from a very bad B-grade science fiction movie, but then, so were the aliens.  
More troubling were the two new alien types recovered on the previous mission. Paul retrieved the folder and flipped it open to the page he wanted. The words 'Snakeman' were emblazoned in font size-16 letters under the heading 'alien species'. It was obvious the snakemen had developed in an extremely hostile environment. Their skin was so tough as to be natural armour. The autopsy team had been forced to discard their scalpels and resort to a lower-power carbon dioxide laser to cut the beast open. It was a wonder that the XCR bullets had had any effect at all.  
Similar to the Sectoids, the snakes were a carbon-based lifeform. However, the resemblance ended there. Human skin is composed of three layers, the epithelial being the outermost, while the endothelial was the innermost. Snakeman skin possessed a highly pliable endothelial, but the cells of the middle and outer layers had agglomerated to form distinct striations. Looking at the epithelial was like looking at a cross-hatching pattern under the microscope. They were composed of an organic plastic that the snakemen evidently secreted. The structure was not unlike earth- cellulose, providing an amazing amount of resilience against physical impact. The organic plastic also exhibited extreme ablative properties, rendering the snakemen effectively heat resistant.  
The snake-like tail was exactly what it appeared to be: a means of locomotion. Upon splitting it open, however, the scientists had made a very alarming discovery. The tail also housed the 'reproductive' system. Paul did not know what else to call it. Encased within a tough, fibrous sac were fifty eggs in every snakeman. There were no visible means for fertilizing the eggs, and it was hypothesized that the eggs were automatically 'primed' once a certain period of the snakeman lifecycle was reached. All the alien had to do then was to deposit the egg somewhere, and wait for it to hatch. Without a live specimen though, there was no way to determine the gestation period.  
Most likely their infantry, Paul speculated. The sheer physical mass of the creature would prove intimidating to its enemies, and its toughness allowed it a far higher survivability rate than the Sectoids. If this was so, then the Sectoids could be likened to alien scouts, units meant to infiltrate and recon human cities, but not meant to engage in combat.  
Paul's blood ran cold. If the aliens had infiltrated human society, how might they be found? Surely, something as distinctive as a Sectoid would be noticed. Obviously, it would have to be disguised. There were plenty of short folk in the world, but how does one conceal an over-sized head and staring black eyes?  
He could not put the thought out of his head. The combat teams had reported humans helping wounded snakemen. If X-Com were to try and purge society of these traitors, and if the infiltration and subversion were widespread enough, it would result in a new Inquisition.  
Paul pulled his 3Com Palm Pilot from his pocket and made a note of it. He would highlight the possibility to CINCXCOM during the next staff meeting. Putting the device back, the scientist flipped to the pages detailing the second new alien.  
There actually was not very much to go on. The alien caught in the mis-deployed landing pod had been badly mangled, and although Recovery had been careful, they still had problems getting the creature out. Xenophysiology had been left with an intact thorax and arm, but that was about it. Everything else was so much squished alien, long since consigned to the incinerator.  
This was the alien that had haunted his dreams. Since time immemorial, Man had theorized about the existence of a purely silicon-based lifeform. Since such a lifeform would be incalculably tougher than mere carbon-based creatures, and would be able to survive where carbon-based life would be rapidly killed off. This alien was such an organism.  
The 'skin' could not even be called skin. It was more an exo- skeleton, a suit of silicon-germanium armour that was incredibly resistant to even armour-piercing ammunition. The lower-power laser used in the snakeman autopsy had failed to cut beyond a few millimetres of this exo- skeleton, and the dissection team had to up the gain before they could get any significant cutting power.  
Worse, they had absolutely no experience in culturing silicon cells. The insides of the creature were the same soft, pulpy mush found inside any other living being, but they were still silicon-based. The scientists were completely stumped, until some genius had given up thinking and simply slapped the alien cells into a normal culture medium.  
The results horrified everyone. The silicon cells responded to the culture as well as any other carbon cells, but it was their rate of mitosis that was most astounding. Normal cell cultures can take up to a day to produce a visible change in mass, but within two hours, these 'abnormal' cells had completely saturated the culture medium. Pulling the plug on the culture had not helped; once started, it appeared the cells were capable of reproducing indefinitely at that rate. They had finally ended up ditching everything into the incinerator before the uncontrolled growth got out of hand.  
Paul shuddered. With that kind of cell growth rate, any wound inflicted on the creature would close up and heal almost immediately. That is, if the ballistic medium managed to penetrate the exo-skeleton in the first place.  
Similar to the snakemen, the creature held eggs within its abdomen. Twenty of the soft-shelled, yellow things, to be precise. They were also clad in a tough, fibrous sac, although these were proportionally smaller to fit into the smaller thorax. A short ovipositor led upwards to its neck region, where the missing head did not help to clear the picture of how the eggs were delivered. Most likely, the alien simply vomited the eggs out of its body, Paul thought.  
The 'hand' of the arm was a crab-like claw. The inside edges were serrated, and would make painful wounds. Other than that, the only noteworthy thing was the presence of concentrated groups of muscle within and around the arm, probably lending the limb incredible amounts of strength and dexterity.  
Studded throughout the body at various points were reservoirs of some unknown chemical. Testing had shown it to be the alien-equivalent of epinephrine. To what exact purpose escaped speculation, but it suggested that the alien would be capable of highly intense bursts of 'fight-or- flight' for short intervals.  
Paul closed the report, and placed it on his desk again. Two new species of aliens, both appearing to be mobile reproductive centres. What were the aliens planning? He wondered. Displacing all life on earth with their own? How did the infiltration theory fit in with all this? A superior alien-human hybrid? It did not make any sense. Why insinuate subversives then, if they were trying to wipe humanity from the universe.  
Groaning, Paul massaged his temples and went looking for coffee.  
  
Weapons and Munitions were having much better luck. The analysis of the alien bullets and the orange material packed inside was almost complete. The glowing stuff was really some kind of element, as the spectroscopy and other tests had shown. Samples had been sent to the various supercollider sites around the world, with explicit orders that gave the alien element top priority over any experiment that was not currently running. CERN in Bern, Switzerland, had come back with the first negative reply. They would try again, they said, but it was highly unlikely. Within two days, almost all the supercolliders had reported in, all with the same uniform negative. Apparently, no one had powerful enough particle accelerators.  
In any case, X-Com did not have any time to research ways to extract this new element in any significant quantity. It would have to be retrieved wholesale from any alien craft.  
The new element had some interesting properties. It was completely chemically inert, much like noble gases. The Materials science sub-section had poured acid on it, immersed it in alkalis, and done a whole host of unpleasant experiments on it, but it had all come to no avail. The element was intrinsically stable, despite being metallic in nature.  
The next obvious step was to prime the element, bringing it into a 'ready' state for any interactions. Dr. Moira Taggart and her team illuminated a small quantity of the element with a low power laser, hoping to destabilize it within a magnetic containment field. The computer recorded that within 0.2 milliseconds of absorbing the laser energy, the alien element was literally catapulting its electrons off, in the direction of the laser. The element was rapidly being ionized, leaving behind a very unstable metal core. The residual core reacted violently with the air, resulting in an explosion that wrecked the entire containment chamber. It also gave off an electrical pulse which fried the circuits in all the electronic systems in the room. Fortunately, the experiment room had been isolated from the rest of the X-Com facility, and the damage was localized.  
Moira and her team had escaped relatively unhurt, although all of them sported various burns and bruises. The one unfortunate research assistant who had received almost the full benefit of the electromagnetic pulse had exploded into a grand mal seizure as nervous tissues in his body fired erratically. He had survived the three second episode, although the muscle contractions had been uncontrolled and powerful enough to tear his biceps. The man would spend the next month or so in hospital.  
Weapons and Munitions had promptly dubbed the element 'shocker'. For more scientific purposes, though, they handed the stuff over to Materials, where it was officially designated element 115, Elerium.  
It turned out that the alien bullets used in the three main categories of weapons differed only in the amount of elerium used. The thin sheath of alien metal coating the elerium tip of the bullet would burn away during its trajectory, unleashing the full force of the destabilized elerium core upon a target. The bullet would therefore kill through a combination of impact and electromagnetic burns.  
Examining an alien weapon next, the scientists found an incredibly complex particle acceleration system inside. An elerium bullet would enter the receiver and immediately feed into an acceleration breech. The breech appeared to nullify gravity within it, extending this effect for the entire length of the entire barrel. Six low-power lasers then served to generate electromagnetic flux along the path designated by a central, sighting laser. Depressing the trigger would send a pulse to the control circuits in this miniaturized railgun assembly and send the elerium bullet hurtling towards its target. As the bullet neared the barrel end, it would pass through what the scientists called a 'priming' mechanism. In essence, the bullet would receive a sudden, powerful jolt of electricity. This would begin the elerium destabilization process. As the elerium tip began eating through its sheath from the inside, the friction from passing through the outside medium would also disintegrate the sheath from the outside. Once the cover had been dissolved, the now-unstable elerium would interact with the air and explode into flame, causing the characteristic flares of azure, crimson and emerald pulses associated with the three different calibres of alien weapons.  
X-Com did not have the technology yet to reproduce the internal acceleration field, but the bullets themselves were easy to make, given a sufficient quantity of elerium to work with. This part-particle beam, part solid ammo system was lethal, and could punch a hole clean through the titanium armour plating of an M1 Abrams tank.  
After that, it was simplicity itself to figure out the safety mechanism. Much like any other weapon, there was a lever next to the trigger. The plasma guns could be set to safe, single-shot or autofire. With the safety on, the anti-gravity unit within the gun was disabled, making it impossible to fire any bullets. This also eliminated the possibility of a round being fired when the heavy weapon was dropped. Autofire was a standard three-round burst of elerium slugs.  
As Moira put it when she was explaining it to the X-Com combat teams, "just point and shoot."  
  
* * *  
  
Orvax trudged down the dark corridor to the Antiluvian Hives. Constructed from the purely organic material, the entire area reeked of complex organic polymers and esters. The smell was sweet and foul, clinging tenaciously to Orvax's skin, and he detested it.  
Ah well, a job was a job. And the spymasters deserved to be appraised of the situation.  
Around him scuttled the Antiluvians. Covered in a glistening black armour, able to withstand even direct hits from a laser cannon, the troops snapped to attention. The other rank-and-file soldiers were discomfited by the Antiluvians, since strictly speaking, they were all components of the same mind, mere extensions of the same, indomitable will.  
Orvax stopped before the Throne, a thick matrix of organic plastic and ropy strands that held it in place.  
"Arraveix," he called.  
Something monstrously large uncoiled from the Throne, slowly lowering itself to the ground on thick, segmented legs. Huge claws uncoiled, and a second set of scythe-like talons extended from the back of its shoulders. The terrible maw gaped open, revealing row after row after row of serrated teeth.  
"My Lord Overseer," Arraveix replied, his voice like a sibilant hiss.  
  
Orvax regarded the monster. Arraveix was the central node to the Antiluvian Hive, the focal point of its collective consciousness. The Tel' Istar were served by many such as he, providing rank after rank of unswervingly loyal shock troops whose purpose was never more than to sow confusion, destruction, and above all, terror, amongst the enemy.  
But even then, Arraveix was special. The other Patriarchs, progenitors of entire Hives, were merely Antiluvians. Arraveix was quite something else.  
Orvax had to smile at his foresight.  
"Congratulations on your victory," Arraveix said then.  
"You have heard?"  
"We are the spymasters. Of course we know."  
"So then, you know exactly what I want".  
"Yes, Lord Overseer. The outpost on the planet Mars is under our purview, since it is mainly an observation post."  
"No longer, Arraveix. Times change."  
"Indeed. May I ask how you managed to bring the Crusaders to power?"  
Orvax laughed. It was not a pleasant sound.  
"They are all cowards. Nobody wants to die. It was that easy."  
His mirth abruptly vanished. "But the truth is, the time of the Guardians has passed. No more will they feed those miserable lesser beings our technology. Look at what we could have achieved if Crusaders had led from the start – the Jolvril, we could have subdued in a matter of weeks! And the Earthlings …"  
Arraveix knew when his Lord was getting worked up.  
"Times change," he echoed. "The troops are already prepared. When do you want the transports to leave?"  
Orvax did not have to think. "Immediately. Put Kark in charge."  
"And when does the campaign commence?"  
"Why, Arraveix," Orvax grinned cruelly. "It already has."  
  
* * *  
  
"Remember, there is no recoil."  
The X-Com combat teams were at the firing range at the Area 51 base. They were training with the alien weapons available in the base, firing them at ranges up to two hundred meters at pop-up targets. There were four of the big cannons, two of the rifles and a single pistol. Weapons and Munitions called them 'plasma weapons'.  
Ivan had received one of the plasma cannons, or heavy plasma, as Dr. Taggart had called it. He shifted the heavy gun a bit, trying to find a comfortable position to aim it with. The grip was too obviously wrong, and would not sit right in his hand. The thing was heavy, almost as bad as a heavy machine gun in terms of weight, but it would give far more firepower than 0.5-calibre bullets ever could.  
"Load and ready!" Came the call.  
He pulled out a magazine of elerium bullets, slapped it home and took the weapon off safety.  
"Fire!"  
Strangely enough, the aliens also employed no sights on their weapons. Weapons and Munitions had been forced to weld on iron sights. That also provided the ability to snap on a sniper or laser scope, although of how much use they would really be in a real fight remained to be seen.  
Pulling the weapon stock tight against his shoulder, Ivan sighted along the gun and gently pulled the trigger. A burst of emerald fire exploded from the muzzle of the heavy plasma, blinding him completely. Ivan hurriedly safed the gun and put it down, then started rubbing away the purple spots dancing in his eyes. He cursed sulphurously in Russian. Similar cries from his firing detail told him that nobody had anticipated this problem.  
The range control officer was shouting. "What the fuck is everybody doing?"  
"Muzzle flash, sir," somebody called back. "It's like looking into the sun."  
Standing next to Dr. Taggart in the observation berth, Wolf shook his head. "Should've thought of that, Moira. Can't use the weapon if you just get blinded every time you fire it."  
Moira nodded. "My apologies."  
Wolf gestured at the soldiers below the booth. "Apologize to them."  
"We'll fix it," the doctor promised. "For the moment, let's just use sunglasses."  
  
The sunglasses did not help over much, but did cut back significantly on glare. Ivan thought that they looked ridiculous, standing in an underground firing range that was not particularly well-lit to begin with. At least the range control officer had been correct; there was no recoil. He had asked Dr. Taggart about it, and she had patiently explained that the anti-gravity system inside the heavy plasma effectively propelled the bullets without applying a physical propulsion force, thus eliminating the recoil. Ivan had caught about half of that, then politely nodded and went back to firing the weapon.  
The range of the heavy plasma maxed out at only two hundred meters. The unstable elerium core forming the bullet was already decaying by the time it had left the barrel, and the explosive nitrogen-oxygen mix of the atmosphere accelerated its decomposition exponentially. After travelling through the effective range, the bullet exploded spectacularly.  
Those firing the plasma rifles had even shorter ranges to work with, although the punishing glare of the muzzle flash was in no way lessened. The rifles fired up to only a hundred and fifty meters, and lacked the sheer destructive power of a heavy plasma blast.  
The only weapon that fired without blinding its operator was the plasma pistol, although that was probably more due to the fact that it was fired using a Weaver stance than anything else. That ensured that the pistol was held at arm's length. The plasma pistol proved much less powerful than its bulkier cousins, although it was ideal as a secondary weapon.  
"Dr. Taggart," Robert suddenly spoke up as the second firing detail were taking their turn.  
The scientists turned to regard the Brit curiously. "Yes?"  
"If the alien weapons are all short range guns, then why can't we use laser scopes to aim instead?"  
She stared at him, chagrined. "Sergeant, you're a genius!"  
"I know," he said, smiling blandly.  
  
While the combat teams were testing firing their new toys, Captain Andrea Zago, Chief of Security, was watching the video taped interrogation of the Spanish subversive captured on the previous mission. The subject was seated before a panel of three examiners, and two security guards were visible in the background. Completely ignoring the questions of her captors, the woman alternated between laughing maniacally and speaking the same phrases repeatedly. Since Spanish was relatively similar to the native Italian that Andrea spoke, he got by without an interpreter.  
"Tenebrous comes! He shall give us strength to smite our foes, and strike terror into their hearts! All hail Tenebrous!"  
The interrogation team had not been able to get anymore out of her. Blatantly breaking all known Geneva conventions of civilized war and treatment of POWs, they had resorted to methods more suited to an Inquisition dungeon. It was one of the more unpleasant aspects of the job, and Andrea was not proud of it at all. Even worse, nothing had worked; the woman continued screaming her alien liturgy even through the torture. When they had finally given up, she had been executed with a single shot to the back of the head. X-Com was a top secret organization, and a prisoner could not be released with knowledge of its classified base. Andrea did not approve, but first and foremost, he did not own X-Com. More importantly, the aliens had obviously programmed the woman to resist interrogation, no matter the means used to get information out of their subject.  
Tenebrous. A bastardized version of the Latin word for Darkness.  
Andrea had no idea who or what this Tenebrous was, but he knew that one of the alien autopsies had involved a black creature, and that was planting certain notions in his head. It disturbed him to think that the aliens could have so influenced a fellow human being. He needed more information.  
The security chief swivelled in his chair to face his computer terminal. It was a state-of-the-art piece of hardware, running an Intel 3- Ghz Pentium III chip. Left permanently hooked into the Internet, the customized security encryption program built into the browser was the standard 1025-bit RSA; with the new Advanced Encryption Standard algorithms already available, he was going to have to look into upgrading to that sometime soon. Andrea could use it to contact any security/military organization in the world. X-Com had their own high-speed fibre optic backbone into the 'Net, but was still limited by the amount of bandwidth available. While Andrea had access to the ultra-high speed Internet2 as well, he generally left that to the techies down in the Science Division, using it only when he really needed it.  
Turning to his favourite search engine, Andrea performed a search for 'Tenebrous'. Google came back with slightly over four hundred entries, and without further information to refine his search, Andrea had no choice but to plough through the mess. He spent the next forty minutes or so rapidly clicking through the list of site hits, and discarded all but three possibilities. An on-line tabloid had records of a 'Cult of Tenebrous', describing a bizarre sect that believed the Antichrist was on earth recruiting the necessary armies for Armageddon. The Beast would take the form of a being of living darkness, and all those he touched were his chosen, and he would 'grant them speed and strength above that of mere mortals, that they might burst free from their human shells and become warriors of the true faith'. A staunch Catholic himself, Andrea was a little sickened by what he read.  
The other two sources were similar in content, although the details varied slightly. The one common line was that this Tenebrous could give any person exceptional strength and speed, and the unwritten implication of immortality. Armed with this rudimentary knowledge of an unseen foe, Andrea clicked the security program on, and proceeded to log on to the government intelligence sites.  
Rummaging through the various entries which involved a 'Tenebrous', Andrea discovered that the Cult of Tenebrous was really quite international. The cult was linked in crimes all the way from Darwin, Australia, to New York City in the States. Members were usually arrested for disturbance of the peace, shouting slogans in the streets and graffiti, and along those lines. More isolated incidents involved petty thefts and fraud, nothing unusual for such an organization looking for fast money. The cult stayed away from doomsday ultimatums and group suicides, maintaining a visible enough profile but without calling any seriously undue attention to itself.  
Sitting back in his chair, the security chief tapped a thoughtful finger on his chin. He came from Sicily, Italy, where everybody at least knew somebody in the famous Italian Mafioso. Andrea was luckier than most; the Mafia were men of strange honour, and would fiercely defend their territories from any and all threats while remaining utterly ruthless and brutal. When he was only ten, a group of 'unauthorized' criminals had driven by the shop where Andrea's parents worked. They had wanted money, and demonstrated their willingness to use force on his mother. After taking what they wanted, the goons had summarily executed Andrea's father. Local Mafia Don Giovanni Ligas had sent his own hit team out, tracking down this group of people. The shadowy underworld had its own rules and regulations, and by performing a crime without first consulting Ligas for permission violated many such courtesies. When the offenders had been dealt with, Andrea had been brought, sobbing, into Giovanni's office.  
The Mafia boss was a powerful man, and also a man of great honour and sympathy who had also lost his parents young. He apologized to the child, explaining that his parents had died because of 'bad people' acting without permission from him. Giovanni offered to put the child through school, in return that Andrea commit his services to the Mafia for life thereafter.  
Smiling through his tears, Andrea had politely refused. His parents had always wanted him to follow his dreams, and his dream was to become a police officer – quite the opposite of the Mafia. The Mafia owned the police, Giovanni had laughed. But he respected the boy, young though he was. It took guts to say 'no' to what was possibly one of the most powerful people in the city. Giovanni still put Andrea through school, all the way through university, in fact. The boy was like the son he never had, though the Mafia chief would never admit it. He did, however, regret the day when Andrea graduated and joined the police force. Still, Giovanni was fond of saying, he hoped that Andrea would prove a stimulating opponent.  
The years had passed by, and although lives were lost in clashes between Mafia and the slightly cleaned-up police, the strange pair maintained friendly contact. Giovanni even went so far as to execute one of his Mafia who tried an unsuccessful and unauthorized assassination attempt on Andrea. Politics demanded that Andrea was civil to the very antithesis of his job, although Andrea was already grateful to the peculiar Giovanni for the help the man had given him. He did not know how to repay the crime boss save by doing his job well, though, a thought which strangely amused Giovanni to no end. The Don knew that Andrea could never touch him.  
Then X-Com had come, and taken Andrea into its fold. Because of the highly classified nature of X-Com, he had never contacted Giovanni after then. With the anticipation of speaking once again with a long-lost friend, Andrea lifted his secure satellite line and dialed the private number leading to Don Giovanni's office. Only a handful of people had direct knowledge of this telephone number, all of them trusted associates of the Mafia chief.  
"Ciao," came a sweet, lilting voice over the line. Andrea had to smile; he had been madly in love with Mara since forever. He knew she felt the same way about him. Unfortunately, his duty came first. Their relationship would never work out, anyway. He would have to be affiliated with the Mafia to even think about being with Mara, and he had spent too long fighting organized crime to be a part of it.  
"Mara, it has been a long time, no?" He answered.  
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. "Andrea."  
"Si. I need to speak with Signor Ligas. This is of grave importance."  
"Momento." Muted sounds in the background filtered over the receiver.  
"Andrea, my boy, how nice of you to call!" Giovanni's booming voice came over the line.  
"Capo, how are you? It has been a long time, but my new job prevents me from calling anyone very often."  
The man laughed. "X-Com is tight with their money for phone calls, si?"  
Andrea gulped. "How did you know?"  
"I am Mafia, Andrea. There is nothing I cannot find out if I so wish. But surely you did not call to discuss such details. What is it? I am a very busy man, you must know."  
"My apologies, Giovanni. I shall get straight to the point. Have there been any new developments in Sicily? I mean, like new organizations. Specifically, a 'Cult of Tenebrous'."  
"That is a strange name." There came the sound of the man scratching his beard. "Wait."  
Giovanni conferred with someone else for a moment, then came back on.  
"Si, si, we have knowledge of such a group of people here. They are like … how do you say, cult? They take people in, and people come out very strange. Their group is not very big, maybe twenty, thirty people. But they are very polite, ask me for permission to set up their business, give me much money, nothing unusual. But I sent two men to infiltrate their organization two weeks ago, they never come back. I am thinking of demanding explanations for this."  
Andrea had an unpleasant notion that he knew what had happened to the two men.  
"Giovanni, I beg you, do not do send any more men. I must tell this to my superiors."  
The Mafia chief caught the worried tone immediately. "Something bad about this cult?"  
"Si. How much do you know about X-Com?"  
"Enough." Giovanni replied guardedly.  
"There are unknown hostiles in your area, then."  
"You can say 'aliens', you know. My Italian is not so bad."  
Andrea laughed. "So much for the X-Com secret. We must investigate, Giovanni."  
The Mafia chief snorted. "I have resources, Andrea."  
"It is as you say, but there are aliens, then there are aliens."  
"Andrea," Giovanni sounded offended. "I can bring in an army if I want to."  
"Scusi, Giovanni. But the army would have no idea what it was up against. And it would quickly go public. Can you imagine the chaos if people found out about the aliens?"  
"The Mafia also owns the newspapers, Andrea. They will say nothing if I wish it so."  
"But can you silence all the tongues in the city? Rumours will spread, and it will be bad for business."  
The Mafia chief sighed. "I do not like this, Andrea, but you make a lot of sense."  
"An alliance, then?"  
"X-Com and the Mafia?" Giovanni was incredulous.  
"It would have to be quiet."  
The Mafia boss roared with sudden laughter. "But I like it to go public! Imagine, 'Mafia helps stop alien threat'. Very good for business, you know!"  
He quickly turned serious. "But there are already rumours, Andrea. Such a thing cannot go unnoticed for too long."  
Andrea ignored that. "I shall speak with my supervisors immediately, Giovanni."  
"Good. Make it quick. I dislike anything that interrupts me from making money."  
"It shall be as you say, Giovanni." Andrea paused. "May I speak with Mara?"  
"Ah." A knowing chuckle came over the line. "You do know that this is my private line, Andrea.."  
While Andrea struggled to find a suitable reply, Giovanni quietly laughed again. "Just for once, I put everything on hold for you. You broke her heart once, Andrea. You do it again, and I will have to shoot you."  
The security chief chuckled weakly. He was not entirely sure that the Mafia chief was joking.  
"Thank you, Giovanni."  
"She will be good for you, Andrea. I must be growing old, to say this. If you two wish to marry, you have my blessings. I shall even let her leave the Mafia. No recriminations, no reprisals, and no questions."  
Andrea found his voice thick with emotion. He knew how much it cost Giovanni to say it. "Why, Giovanni? I have refused your help before, when I was so much younger. Since then, I have tried my best to bring you down. You owe me nothing. In fact, I am surprised that I am still alive today."  
The brief silence was profound. "Andrea, I never married because I knew my family would never be safe from the ambitions of everyone else. You are like my son, and Mara, she is like a daughter to me. It would make me happy to see you two together. Remember, I am already sixty-five. I do not have much time left."  
The security chief fought back sudden tears. "Grazie, mio padre." 


	7. Welcome To Italy

CINCXOM did not blink when Dr. McNeilly put forth his theory of alien infiltration. This was backed up by security chief Andrea, followed by a request to investigate a suspected cell of human subversives in Sicily, Italy. Both were rather surprised by his lack of protest, but the boss explained that soldiers who did not respond fast enough to situation changes usually did not get a second chance to do so.

"Anything else?" CINCXCOM asked crisply.

Dr. Taggart pushed back a shock of hair hanging over her eyes. The meeting was via teleconference, minus the video images usually associated with it. It allowed CINCXOM to maintain a cloak of complete anonymity, while retaining the capability to transmit any pertinent data over the secure line as required.

"We've decoded some of the alien weapon systems," she said.

"Then we can start feeding them their own medicine," CINCXCOM noted. "Andrea, did you put out an international alert to watch out for this Cult of Tenebrous?"

"Already done, sir. Seems like this cult has been found all over the world. I checked with Interpol, the FBI, and the Singapore CID. They've all arrested members of the cult at some time or the other, and the cult chiefs have so far left their boys in jail. No breakout attempts, and even no lawyers. They just sit in their cells and shout out slogans. It's unnerving all the other in-mates."

"How odd. What are the slogans they are shouting?"

"Variants of 'I have been touched' and 'I have been blessed by Tenebrous'."

There was a moment of silence as CINCXCOM pondered it.

"When did this cult originate?"

"As far as I can tell, they've been around since the mid-1990s. Exactly the period when the aliens began more aggressive incursions against Earth. The Cult of Tenebrous was localized then, mainly to rural communities in the States, Europe and the Asian continent. Just before we set up X-Com in 1999, there was a period when the cult seemed peculiarly active, spreading into the major cities. The activity has since died down."

"Arrest frequency?"

"Rather low. Their expansion did not include highly visible acts like murder or arson. They stuck to low-grade crime, and many police agencies have written them off as little more than an annoyance."

"That might be a mistake," CINCXCOM murmured. "Dr. McNeilly, you think that we might have alien infiltrators, possibly even agitators, in society?"

"Yes, sir."

"Possibility of an alien-human hybrid?"

"Unknown, sir. It is conceivable, though; they seem to be far more technologically advanced than we are, after all."

"But it is there, no?"

"Definitely, sir."

"I'm missing something here," CINCXCOM grunted. "No sense wasting any more time on this. Let us deal with more immediate matters. Andrea, get on your investigation immediately. I'm trying to get a third X-Com base set up in Australia, but their parliament is proving surprisingly stubborn. Something about contaminating their environment with aliens."

Australia's quarantine laws were famous around the world. The group broke out into light laughter at that. The boss continued.

"I want results within 48 hours, alright?"

"_Si_, boss."

"Good. Moira, what are your boys working on?"

"We've got another toy that Wolf and his gang brought in. Seems to be a variant of their plasma weapons, but we haven't got it sussed yet. But it's massive, and the aliens mount it on their spacecraft."

"McNeilly?"

"Xeno has got nothing new to play with. We'll help these poor sods in whatever until we get a fresh alien to work on."

"I want at least two from your team to work on this alien infiltration angle. I want to know the minute you come up with anything."

"Yes, sir."

"Materials, what have you got?"

"UFO equipment, sir. Specifically, the alien tank and that weird orb the combat teams salvaged last mission, and we're also working on a chunk of what appears to be a UFO navigation device. It's horribly complex, though." Came the answer.

"Keep at it. Engineering, have you cleared the prototypes of the HWPs yet?"

"Complete, sir. Each team has already been assigned a Heavy Weapons Platforms, a COIL laser HWP-L. Team Rattler is getting their new Skyranger as well, and we've put their HWP-L on it."

"Excellent. Who gets to drive those monsters?"

"We've managed to requisition two combat-trained technicians, Corporal Dieter Kroner gets Team Shark, and Corporal Hans Schmid gets Team Rattler. They should be in sometime within the next two days or so."

"We seem to be recruiting rather heavily from the European continent, aren't we?" CINCXCOM observed.

"Hans is American, sir; his grandparents moved here just before World War II."

"Where is he from?"

"Sunnyvale, California. He's a good lad, sir, familiar with computers. Former Navy, he was going to get assigned to the Yorktown."

"With any luck, he'll be able to prevent another NT disaster."

The USS Yorktown had lost control of its propulsion system in September 1997. It had installed Windows NT as part of its control system some time ago, and it was widely rumoured that it had been NT that had failed and caused the accident.

The chief engineer coughed politely. "Of course, sir."

He preferred Unix, personally, but Windows NT _did_ have a lot of nice features. And now Microsoft was going to discontinue support for Windows NT in favour of their new-fangled Windows XP ...

There really was no justice in this world.

"Anything else anyone want to say?" CINCXCOM wanted to know. "No? Okay, then, let's get cracking."

  


***

  


With the fighting expected to be in close quarters, Team Shark had been chosen for this mission. Their experience in combat with aliens made them ideal for the choice, since X-Com could very well be encountering their first alien base. It was highly unlikely, but Andrea wanted to be prepared for all possibilities. A veil of secrecy had to be drawn over the mission, for obvious reasons, and the X-Com combat team had flown into Palermo, Sicily, onboard a Boeing 767 from JFK Airport in New York. The flight had included a transit of three and a half hours in Heathrow, London, and the troopers spent most of the journey asleep.

Their equipment had to be flown in before them, ostentatiously into one of the Italian military bases on the European continent. Customs quickly glossed over the various import papers, which were all in the correct order, paying no attention to what was apparently another high-level arms sale to the Italian government. Mafia contacts inside Customs quietly substituted the 'legal' papers with the ones for correct delivery to where the weapons were really needed, and packaged the heavy guns into crates labelled 'Fragile'. The crates got shipped off to the Sicilian island with a minimum of fuss, arriving as the last shipment for the day before the port closed. The Customs officer on-duty there went over the usual checks for explosives and illegal substances, but turned up empty. Satisfied, he signed all the requisite documents and handed them over to dockmaster. After a brief shower, he closed up his office and headed home.

The dockmaster just 'happened' to be in the employ of the Mafia, as were two members of the night watchmen. A quietly slipped lock here, a disabled alarm there, and a small team of Mafia dressed in standard work uniforms moved into the cargo holding area that very night. They pried open the crates, and began unpacking the guns and ammunition. There was no question of theft; it had been made abundantly clear that any 'acquisitions' would be confiscated and the routine punishment meted out. The orders came straight from the top levels of Mafia hierarchy, and nobody wanted to be shot and dumped out at sea with the rest of his extended family. The work crew was quick and efficient, and within minutes had stowed the weapons into empty rifle cases. Ammunition got stacked into backpacks, along with the foldable suits of personal armour. They split into two groups then, one re-sealing the opened crates, and the other muscling the now-heavy weapon cases back out of the cargo holding area gates. At the carpark, an unassuming Volvo had its boot open to receive the liberated arms. The first work group piled into the Volvo and was gone in another three minutes. The second group cleaned up all traces of their entrance, going so far as to scuff the dust on the ground into random patterns. They left subtle signs to their insiders that the mission had been successfully completed, then left on foot, apparently just another batch of late-working folks glad to finally finish the day. With the port in an isolated area of town, it was highly unlikely that anyone had seen them.

The night watchmen finished their sweep of the cargo holding area on schedule, noting the signs left by their peers. Locks were silently re-engaged and alarms re-set. Whistling, with their huge Dobermans on leashes, the pair of insiders continued on to the staff canteen for a well-earned expresso.

Team Shark made Leonardo da Vinci Airport in Rome the next day. The flight, while long, had been uneventful. Each team member was dressed in civilian clothes, completely unarmed. The image of another band of friends out for a Mediterranean holiday was easily achieved, and nobody gave them any particular attention. They passed through customs like everybody else, and were politely told that their luggage had been re-directed to Palermo for them.

It was a short flight from the continent to Sicily, where they were met at the airport by their Mafia contacts. Andrea had tagged along as their liaison officer, and he was instantly recognized. Dressed no differently from any other civilian, the Mafia officers had greeted Team Shark warmly. There was small talk about how their baggage had already been collected, and everything was in the proper order. Then they were directed to a pair of Citroens, which would take them to a hotel.

The Mafia drivers briefed the X-Com team on the Sicilian branch of the Cult of Tenebrous as they drove. There had been no new developments, they said, the cult members had paid their protection money and had asked for permission to operate as usual. Still no word had been heard of the two Mafia Giovanni had tried to place into the cult ranks. Their arms and armour would be waiting for them in the hotel suites, and the Mafia had provided their own security team in the building. Another team of a dozen men would be despatched to back up the X-Com combat team, and would be at their complete disposal.

They pulled up into the hotel driveway, and the X-Com personnel were shown to their rooms. Wolf took the time to carefully observe the Mafia in action. They were very good, indeed. There was no overt indication of anybody on guard duty, but Wolf knew how to look for such things. That man, lounging in a sofa in the lobby, chatting away with an attractive lady. The way he furtively glanced around him at intervals. And that one there, the polite receptionist, a look of recognition flashing across her eyes for a moment when she greeted him and handed him his room keys. Subtle things, but telling nonetheless. While he could see no sign of any weapons, Wolf had no doubt that the lobby could be bathed in blood within moments of an alert being given.

The team had been split into pairs to share rooms, as befitting members of the public who could not afford over-pricey accommodation. Wolf got to share a room with Andrea, and as the others all retired for what remained of the day, he slung the pack holding his stuff and went to the room, Andrea in tow. He found two people waiting for them already.

Giovanni had seated himself comfortably on one of the room chairs, a glass of something in his hand. Mara was standing behind the Mafia chief, her face composed. Wolf knew both of them from the reports that Andrea had prepared.

"_Ciao_, Giovanni," he said. "_Ciao_, Mara."

"You are late," Giovanni returned bluntly.

"Sorry," Wolf apologized. "The plane got delayed at Heathrow."

Giovanni nodded, then turned his attention to an obviously uneasy Andrea. "Well, my boy, after so long, we finally meet."

"_Si_, Giovanni." Andrea was at a loss for words.

The Mafia chief hauled himself to his feet, setting down the glass he held. "I think we should leave these two alone, Colonel Wolf. They have waited far too long to see each other."

"_Giovanni!_" Mara protested.

"It is true, no?"

"_Si_, but it is not polite to say so like this.

The man grinned suddenly. "As you wish, _mia cara_."

He beckoned Wolf out of the door. With an amused expression on his face, Wolf dropped his luggage and followed the Mafia chief. Andrea was left facing Mara as the door shut behind him. A moment later, she was in his arms, crying uncontrollably.

"I miss you, too." Andrea told her tenderly.

Wolf was eyeing the Mafia chief as they left. Giovanni firmly returned the gaze.

"You did not know?" He asked.

The colonel shrugged. "I do not pry into other people's affairs. Not unless I need to."

"You will leave them alone, Colonel." It was not a request. "Or I will have you shot."

"I will leave them alone," Wolf returned. "If it does not interfere with his performance. There is a war out there, Giovanni, and we cannot afford to lose."

The Mafia chief stopped and levelled a hard look at Wolf. "I have killed men for less, Colonel."

The Colonel met him stare for stare. "I just kill men, Giovanni. Now, I kill other things as well."

Giovanni burst out in sudden laughter. "I like you, Colonel. Anyone who threatens me when there are four guns on him has got balls."

Wolf nodded at the compliment. "You have one man at either end of this corridor, posing as room cleaners." He pointed out his suspects. "Probably one behind that door, and that one as well."

"_Bene_," Giovanni said in amazement. "Your reputation is well-earned."

Wolf shot him a sharp glance. "Best to keep such knowledge to yourself, Giovanni."

The Mafia chief sobered quickly. "_Si_. Team Pegasus is not very forgiving, are they?"

"I am not Pegasus," Wolf told him. "I was from 13."

Giovanni paled visibly.

"I was," the Colonel emphasized. "Transferred, or retired, depending on how you look at it."

"Some retirement," the other man snorted. He had regained some of his colour. "How did you manage to get them to let you live?"

"X-Com has some very powerful political connections, Giovanni, ones that even Group 13 must yield to. But it has a price, and I am paying it now."

"Trading one enslavement for another," Giovanni observed.

"Life is full of disappointments, isn't it?" The Colonel gave a sad smile. "But let us speak of business, Giovanni. Where are they?"

The Mafia chief grinned evilly. "I will show you."

  


The Cult of Tenebrous had parked their headquarters in one of the less desirable parts of Palermo, right on the edge of the poorer residential areas. It was a perfectly ordinary building, the standard type of town house that one might find anywhere in the world. A single door led into the interior of the dirty building, and the windows were all boarded up. Wolf judged that it might contain a basement of some sort, and all told that would mean at least three levels to scout.

"I already have men stationed around the vicinity," Giovanni told the Colonel. "The cult members mostly stay inside their house, and do not come out except for groceries and such. They do not purchase firearms, and everybody has seen them use clubs and knives."

Wolf nodded. "How do we get in?"

The Mafia boss beckoned a lieutenant over. "Mialio will show you."

The Italian clicked his heels ceremoniously together and inclined his head slightly towards the Colonel. "There is a back door."

"Good. Let's get going."

  


It was fast approaching eleven at night. Once evening had come, the X-Com combat team had piled into a pair of vans provided by the Mafia, and drove to the cult headquarters. The X-Com combat armour had been spray-painted black for this mission, and all the Italian Mafia grunts wore black cat suits. They were armed with a nasty variety of close-in weapons, most of them clutching Uzis and packing a spare sidearm, although there were a few MP5Ks and assault rifles.

Standard now with every mission, Team Shark carried XCRs. The rifles had proven their worth before. Each team member also carried a sidearm of their choice. Naturally, Drake was armed with his huge MG36 machinegun.

The team split up into two. Wolf took Robert and Monique to the rear, where they were joined by a Mafia strike crew of half a dozen hitmen. The rest of the team were put in charge of a supporting team of another dozen Mafia personnel, where they would strike from the front. A trio of Mafia soldiers would also serve to initiate contact with the cult, by posing as police officers tracking down criminals.

Wolf moved his men into position in the alleyway leading to the backdoor. It was a good twenty meters down the enclosed path, a perfect shooting gallery for any cult snipers stationed at the rear. Smoke grenades would have to be used to break up any lines of sight. Satisfied that everything was more or less in place, Wolf tapped his throat mike twice, sending out a double burst of white noise and beginning the operation.

  


"They are here," the shadowy voice whispered in his mind.

Alfredo Maioli clicked his heels together in acknowledgement. He looked around at the young and eager faces of the latest batch of cult recruits, and the more senior members behind them. They were only thirty strong, but each one willing to give their very lives to defend the True Faith against the approaching heretics. The surge of pride brought tears to his eyes.

"They will come from front and rear," the voice continued. "We will help you."

"Yes, master," Alfredo replied mentally.

The Master of the Chapter was no less than one of the archangels of Tenebrous. He had come one night to Alfredo, and shown him the many mysteries of the universe, and performed miracles to awaken his mind. When Alfredo had collapsed from the sheer weight of the knowledge, the Master had gently gathered the sobbing man into its strong arms and comforted him. The Master had then blessed Alfredo with a germ of its own divine seed, which had sent tendrils of power snaking through his body. No longer would Alfredo need fear Death, the Master had proclaimed. When the Final Enemy came for him, Tenebrous would snatch Alfredo away from his greedy clutches, and re-make him in His own image.

Overcome with such benevolence, Alfredo had wept with joy. He had spent the last two years showing the miracles of the Transformation to people, trying to bring home the Glory of Tenebrous. As always, there were the faithful, and there were the faithless. He was spurned in many quarters, but some welcomed him. Now, three of the senior cultists besides himself had received the Master's blessing. They would be the anvil upon which the foes of the True Faith would be smashed.

The Master had warned Alfredo of the two faithless, of course. Nothing could be hidden from its probing mind. Alfredo shuddered when he remembered what had happened to those serpents. The Master had shown them all that it was both all-forgiving and all-punishing, and that its geneseed could be both blessing and curse. The men had screamed for minutes as the Master warped them into its servants. A fitting end for the children of a false god, Alfredo thought. The two sequestrated ones were now filled with a desire to serve in any way they could.

Dragging his mind back to the present, Alfredo cast his gaze around the congregation one last time before detailing assignments. The Sanctuary must not fall at all costs, and although Alfredo knew that the faithful would be no match for the professional killers out there, he was determined to exact a toll in blood for every step the trespassers took.

  


The expected knock on the door came, just as Alfredo had said it would. Daniella licked her lips in anticipation, and looked to her fellow acolyte for confidence. The swarthy Arab looked back at her, and nodded once. He pulled a Beretta autopistol from its hip holster and held it loosely in one hand. With him standing immediately behind her, so the pistol could not be seen, Daniella opened the door.

A trio of police officers stood outside, but she knew what they really were. Smiling her sweetest smile, Daniella greeted them, "Good evening, officers. What brings you to our humble home?"

One of them stepped forward and brandished a badge. Hollywood wannabe, Daniella thought scornfully. She pretended to listen attentively as he spoke. "We wish to speak with two of your members, who are suspects in an investigation."

"Who are these men you are looking for?" Daniella enquired.

"Pascal, and the one nicknamed 'Tanto'." The officer named the two Mafia who had been sent by Giovanni.

"There is no-one here with those names," she said, looking puzzled. "Are you certain?"

"_Si_, madam. Perhaps you should check with your colleague?"

"_Momento_." She turned to the other acolyte. "Do you know these people?"

The dark-skinned one grinned viciously. "I certainly do."

With that, he roughly shoved her aside and brought the Beretta to bear.

"Idiot! It is too soon!" Daniella screamed as she slammed into the doorframe.

But the damage was done.

The 'officers' were good; the moment the Arab had moved, they had began whipped out their own sidearms. Still, the cultist already had his gun in hand, a distinct advantage over the three police impostors. 9mm bullets spat from the Beretta, taking one in the shoulder and another in the side of his head. The last standing 'officer' had his own Beretta out by then, and a single burst left guts and blood all over the floor. The Arab flopped limply to the ground as Daniella turned to run.

She got no farther than two steps before there was a loud _crack_ and something brutally punched her in the back. The impact flung here a good four feet forward. She crashed to the floor, gasping weakly as a cold numbness slowly spread through her body. Blood pooled underneath her body as she tried to move, but her limbs would not respond.

Severed spine, she thought detachedly. From a high-powered rifle. But from where? The officer was carrying a pistol ...

Darkness closed over her as she dimly realized that there was more than one person sprinting past her in the corridor.

  


"Good shot," Mariko complimented Ivan.

"It was not difficult," the Russian shrugged.

They were sprinting across the twenty meter gap between the building entrance and their sniping position. Pieter was already there, dragging the wounded Italian Mafia hitman to safety. The last surviving 'police officer' was standing guard over the entrance, and Drake was beside him, checking that the dead were really dead.

"Entrance clear," he pronounced after two moments. "Cover is blown, Shark Beta. They knew we were coming."

With the fighting now reduced to close quarters, the MG36 would only be a hindrance. Drake slung the heavy weapon across his back and pulled out his SIG Sauer P226 pistol. Any rifle would be more powerful than a handgun, but in enclosed spaces, a pistol would allow better reaction time simply because it was lighter. He would just have to make up for the reduced firepower with deadly accuracy.

The massed X-Com and Mafia team ran into the building, even as the enemy began responding.

  


The radio transmission echoed loudly in his ear.

"Damned!" Wolf swore violently.

Although the alleyway remained silent apart from the gunfire coming from the front of the building, Wolf was determined not to take any chances.

"Smoke!" He called.

Half a dozen canisters were tossed into the narrow alley, and in moments, a thick cloud of billowing chemical smoke effectively cut visibility next to zero. With the Italian Mafia on overwatch, Wolf led Robert and Monique to the back door and unceremoniously kicked it in.

  


"Infidels!"

The screaming man charged at Mariko, brandishing a gleaming cleaver. Mariko had kicked in the door to this particular chamber, and that had given her no time to react before the flashing knife struck.

The blow to her stomach was stopped cold by the X-Com armour. The stainless steel blade bent, then broke under the pressure. Betrayed by his weapon, the man stumbled once before Mariko shot him point-blank in the chest. As the man crumpled to the ground, Mariko sprayed the last two occupants of the room with bullets. The walls were rapidly redecorated with blobs of bright red.

Drake was in the lead as Mariko had broken off to clear the room. He sighted one cultist aiming a handgun at him, but he was a trained professional; he coolly fired the P226 one-handed, putting two rounds into his chest. As the body slumped against a wall, Drake put a final round into the head for good measure.

The rest of the squad was equally efficient. The whines of the XCRs mixed with the harsh rattle of Uzis and Berettas, and even the crazed cultists were no match for trained killers. They cleared the ground floor quickly, then Drake had Pieter and Ivan go up the stairs with a small detachment of Giovanni's men. Someone spotted the entrance to the basement, but Drake held back until Wolf had joined them.

  


The splintered door caught the cultists by surprise. Wolf barrelled through, smashing his shoulder into one woman and knocking her to the ground. Monique came through next, and her XCR quickly put an end to the other cultists. By the time Robert came through, the room was clear.

Wolf was not in his most chivalrous mood at that moment. He grabbed the fallen woman by her hair and yanked viciously, ignoring her screams of shock and outrage.

"Where are your superiors?" He growled in her face.

She stared defiantly at him until Wolf head-butted her in the nose.

Blood leaked down over her lips as he thrust the muzzle of his XCR under her chin. "Well?"

The throat mike crackled to sudden life.

"Shark Lead, Shark SAW."

"Go ahead, SAW."

"Levels above ground are clear. Found the entrance to the basement, awaiting support."

"Roger that. Be there in a minute."

Wolf turned back to his captive. "Pardon the treatment."

With that, he pulled the trigger of his XCR. The explosive bullet popped the woman's head open like a can of soup, spraying blood and brains all over the place. As Monique cried out in disgust, Wolf let the corpse tumble from his grasp.

He faced a coldly disapproving Robert. "So I'm a psychopath. Sue me."

The team moved out in silence.

  


The man burst into the inner sanctum, his eyes wild.

"The heretics ..."

He got no farther before a hail of bullets tore open his back. Retaining all its inertia, the corpse flew into the room to crash into one of the senior acolytes, who pulled back in disgust. Alfredo grinned mirthlessly; his destiny was at hand. The infidels would pay for their transgression, and the Master would consume their flesh.

Sounds of battle echoed up from the narrow corridor. Alfredo beckoned the two subverted Mafia to his side, and the six senior acolytes formed a loose row in front of them. All had been kissed by the Master, and when the glory of Tenebrous took them, they would eat of the hearts of their enemies, and drink deeply of their blood.

So it had been proclaimed, and so it would be.

  


Drake yelled as a lucky bullet grazed his hand. The pain made him drop his pistol, and then training took over and he fell back to allow Mariko a clear shot. Autofire cut through the air and shredded the last remnants of resistance from the cultists. Drake took a moment to unlimber his MG36 again as the Japanese woman ejected the spent magazine from her XCR and slammed home a fresh one.

The corridor was filled with the dreadful smell of cordite and blood. The last few cultists had put up a decent fight here, aided largely by the narrow confines of the corridor. Things had gone quite badly for the intruders in the first few minutes, with Giovanni losing four men here alone. One of the cultists gotten lucky, and Ivan had taken a bullet in the shoulder as a result. No amount of willpower would make a broken clavicle work, and Monique had taken the Russian back out of the building. Then Robert had chucked in a couple of grenades, shredding some of the defenders and stunning the survivors. A small squad of men raced to the corridor terminus and brutally eliminated any remaining resistance.

They now stood before the inner sanctum of the cult. It was a large underground chamber, fully twenty meters across. At the extreme end, an alien effigy had been carved into the rock. It depicted a harsh face with leering fangs and tiny eyes, and it made Pieter uncomfortable just looking at it. A small altar made of black basalt was before it, and a single alien sphere placed on the altar radiated a cooling, blue light. Behind this stood the last surviving members of the cult, all of them unarmed, but wearing unholy expressions of glee on their faces.

The front rank was six in number, dressed in red robes with gold trim. Behind this row stood three others, one dressed in a velvety black robe and the other two in ragged suits. These men were drooling mindlessly, their faces blank. They gave voice to soul-chilling moans as they swayed from side to side. The effect was most disturbing.

"The Master comes!" The one in the black robe shrieked triumphantly. At some unseen signal, the men in ragged suits shambled forward, their arms outstretched like zombies from some bad B-grade horror movie.

Wolf did not have any qualms about shooting unarmed civilians; a hail of hot lead shattered open the chest of one of the zombies, and the sound of Uzis and Berettas on full auto quickly deconstructed the other. The fanatics began moving at that point, blindly hurling themselves into the field of fire, but before they got any closer, Drake swept the small chamber from end to end with his MG36. Arterial red splashed liberally all over.

Arterial red streaked with emerald green.

When the bodies lay twitching on the ground, Wolf moved into the room, closely followed by his men. The antechamber looked like a dead end, but the Colonel was not satisfied. He instructed that the room be gone over with a fine tooth-comb, looking for hidden doors and the like.

Mariko stepped over one corpse to hammer on the wall. The green, alien blood mixed with the crimson from the humans made her uneasy. Humans did not bleed greenish ichor, did they? The question hummed insistently at the back of her head as she tapped carefully along the length of the wall. She could hear the light taps of the others as they went over the other walls. 

The answer slammed into her skull with blinding clarity.

"Out!" She screamed. "Get out, NOW!"

Everyone turned in confusion towards her as Mariko whipped her XCR up in one fluid motion. She emptied a burst of Duplex bullets into one nearby corpse as the others watched in amazement.

That amazement rapidly turned to horror as the 'corpse' shrieked dementedly. Flesh and muscle tore as something detached itself from the carcass and launched itself through the air. 

It was black and shiny, with scorpion-like claws for hands and insect-like speed. The XCR bullets punched huge holes in its armour, spilling alien blood to the already-slippery ground. As the rounds fragmented, they stopped the creature dead in its tracks. A second volley from Mariko knocked it clean on to its back.

As weapons spun to track the fallen beast, only Robert and Wolf seemed to realize the implications as Mariko stood there screaming, "NO! The other ones!"

Too late.

From each of the corpses burst forth one of those black creatures. One thug next to Pieter got shredded from behind, and by the time Pieter had turned around, the thing snipped his XCR clean in two with a claw and barrelled straight into him. Pieter went down under the weight of the monster with a terrified yell.

Within the first few moments, dying men filled the room with their screams. Even though they were ready, Robert and Wolf were almost overwhelmed. The alien insects moved so quickly that it was difficult to track them. The Colonel roughly shoved the Englishman towards the exit, firing his XCR indiscriminately. Wild-eyed, Robert was doing exactly the same thing.

Standing at the doorway to the room itself, Drake had the most clearance when Mariko had shouted her warning. His field of fire was obscured by the struggling Colonel and pathfinder, and he had already seen Pieter go down. In the tangle of bodies, Drake could not see Mariko anywhere. Indecision grabbed him, and almost cost him his life.

One of those things suddenly spun in his direction, extending its claws. By the time Drake had reacted and brought the MG36 up, the alien was practically on top of him. With a roar of revulsion, the big man saw that the alien 'head' was really only a half-sphere with 'eyes'. He thrust the muzzle of the MG36 straight between those malevolent points, but before he could pull the trigger, the head burst open of its own accord.

The half-sphere had split, revealing a smaller, internal 'face'. With those same beady eyes, the inner 'face' was almost humanoid in appearance; a single empty hole in the middle of the 'face' probably served as its 'nose', and the mouth ...

... was a damned tube shooting for his own face.

Quick as a snake, Drake slapped aside the offending appendage and adjusted his aim. He jammed his weapon muzzle unceremoniously down the tube-shooting orifice. 

"Suck on this," Drake told the alien, and pulled the trigger.

Things were going very badly for Robert and the Colonel. The six feet or so to the room entrance seemed more like six miles. A quick swipe from an alien had torn a gash down the entire length of Robert's right arm, and no amount of willpower would make torn muscles work. He fired his XCR one-handed, pumping high-power bullets erratically into the general chaos. The heavy rifle was taxing to hold single-handedly, and as an exhausted Robert let the muzzle dip to the ground as he fired, the recoil shattered his wrist.

The Englishman screamed in agony as his weapon crashed to the ground.

Wolf laid about with his rifle, emptying the magazine in one frenzied burst. With no time to reload the weapon, he used it as a club. By some incredible miracle of luck, Wolf managed to keep most of the slashing claws from reaching any overly sensitive parts of his body. Reaching out with one hand, he gave the stumbling Robert an almighty push that sent him to the ground.

"Drake!" Wolf screamed as he turned and flung himself to the floor, praying. "Spray the room!"

Unfortunately, Drake was busy with his own problems right then, and the expected burst of heavy fire never came. Cursing at God and Fate and whatever else came to mind, Wolf elbowed aside the groaning Robert and came up with his katana in one hand.

"Alright," the Colonel screamed maniacally at the aliens. "Who wants some!"

Standing protectively over the fallen Englishman, Wolf spun and twirled the blade in an astonishing display of skill. The metal was nowhere hard enough to penetrate the alien armour, but Wolf still managed to deflect blow after blow.

But he was tiring fast, and already the attacks were getting though.

One claw slipped through, and slashed his side hard enough to penetrate his armour. Blood drenched his overalls as Wolf staggered back. He desperately tried to bring the katana back in line for a parry, but was too slow; razor-sharp chitin darted in and out in a single blinding motion, laying open his shoulder. Wolf howled in agony, then chopped savagely at the marauding alien.

Metal kissed chitin as the blade crashed heavily into the alien 'head'. Earth-forged steel was no match for alien armour; with a resounding snap, the katana broke clean in two. The impact unbalanced the Colonel, and the alien rushed forward to punch a claw into his chest.

The X-Com armour miraculously held against the blow. Still, Wolf felt something give in his chest as he rocketed through the air. He hit the wall just next to Drake, hearing the sound of more ribs breaking, then slid limply to the ground. Strange, Wolf thought. Surely dying was supposed to be more painful than this?

By now, Drake had managed to shoulder aside the alien he had shot. He thrust the heavy MG36 to the limit of its sling and opened fire, hoping for the best. Bullets blasted away the few aliens that were closing on his position. The ex-Delta Force soldier ceased fire for a moment, reaching out long enough to grab hold of the unconscious Colonel's collar. His muscles bunching, Drake hauled Wolf into the corridor.

"Drake!"

Behind him came the sound of Monique's voice. He did not even bother turning around.

"Get him out of here!" He bellowed. "The rest of them are still in there!"

With horror, Drake saw that the aliens he had shot were getting up. Wounds that were pumping green ichor were rapidly being filled with what looked like white putty from this distance. He knew that his Beta drum was already about half-empty, and when the big rush came, there would be no time to reload.

He could hear Monique dragging the heavy Colonel away. Robert was only a bit out of his reach, and if he could just get to him ...

"Cover me!"

He heard Monique grunt a startled oath behind him as he dashed out and slipped an arm around the Englishman. Drake pulled mightily, aided by the blood-slicked floor. He did not see anymore of his friends in there.

One alien recovered enough to stop staggering. Drake took that as a personal offence and pumped a couple more rounds into the creature. That forced him to drop Robert for a moment.

"Oh, damned," he muttered as the rest of the aliens began taking an interest in him.

Abandoning dignity to the wind, Drake lifted Robert in a fireman's lift and started running, the MG36 dangling uncomfortably from its strap on his neck. Footsteps ahead told him that Monique had already gotten the general idea. Footsteps behind told him that the aliens were catching on pretty quickly.

Drake took a corner sharply, slamming Robert into the corner wall. Ignoring the cries from the Englishman, he shifted his hold to one precarious hand and began fumbling away at his pistol holster. Too late, Drake remembered that he had dropped the weapon and never bothered to retrieve it. He swore loudly and profusely.

In his haste, Drake tripped over his own feet and nearly fell. Ahead, he saw that Monique had dropped the Colonel and was bring her XCR to bear. Drake lurched to the side just as she fired. The bullet passed close enough to him that he felt its passage. If they survived, he resolved to give Monique a few pointers on her marksmanship.

He charged past her into the open air. At last!

Drake sprinted across the length of the street and unceremoniously spilled Robert to the ground. He could see Monique bravely holding her ground at the building entrance. Grunting, Drake flipped Robert on one side, exposing the other man's holstered P-88. He pulled the weapon free of its holster and tucked it into the waistband of his pants, then ran back to join the fray. Around him, Drake heard the sounds of the Italian Mafia rallying to help.

He was almost too late to stop Monique from being overrun. Reaching the steps leading to the entrance, Drake heard the fatal clack of the bolt trying to chamber from an empty magazine. He saw Monique cast aside her XCR and draw her sidearm, an IMI .357 Desert Eagle, backing away slowly. Two pistols and a single MG36 would never see them through this fight.

The distinctive roar of the IMI weapon filled the night. The first alien barely staggered from the impacts; even the Magnum rounds failed to do much damage. As it reached out for the desperate squad medic, Drake brought his MG36 into play. Holding down the trigger, he kept his aim centred on the black, shiny chest. Chunks of chitin and lighter, greyish alien flesh flew. With a screech that resounded more of anger than pain, the alien insect collapsed, its thorax no more than a mess of mangled flesh and ichor. No amount of white goo was going to plug that hole up.

Behind the dead monster, Drake could see the rest of the alien press-gang coming. He shifted his aim slightly, still holding down the trigger, and walked his fire into the next leading alien. As it stumbled and fell, the monsters behind it leapt around and over their companion to keep the charge momentum up.

There was no way he could hold back the tide. With one hand on the grip of his machinegun, Drake grabbed hold of the fallen Colonel and began tugging him towards the street. Monique got hold of their commander from the other side, and between them, they manhandled Wolf back down the stairs. The only thing keeping them alive was the fact that the corridor was too narrow for the aliens to come at them more than two at a time.

  


Sitting on the fifth floor on the opposite building, Andrea saw the X-Com team taking a beating. Beside him, Giovanni was swearing profusely. X-Com had secrets, but now was not the time to keep this particular one. Taking a deep breath, Andrea turned to the laptop he had brought with him. It was already on and hooked into a satellite telephone. Andrea quickly typed in a series of keys that linked to one of the closest guarded secrets in the world.

  


Monique shouted in surprise as an alien tore its way through the facade wall. Drake registered that, and they dropped the Colonel. Aims were corrected as the monster started punching its way free of the encumbering debris. A hail of bullets knocked it back inside the building, but the diversion had been costly; the main body of aliens were practically demolishing the building entrance in their eagerness to reach the humans outside.

One alien appeared to be smarter than its companions; it smashed the doorframe to smithereens, then launched itself into the air. That manoeuvre proved slow enough that Monique had sufficient time to plug it in the skull once, twice ... _click_.

"_Scheisse!_" Monique cursed feelingly. She hit the magazine release catch, allowing the empty clip to fall to the ground, simultaneously reaching for another spare magazine.

Drake had more success with his heavy weapon; as the stunned creature shook itself, 5.56mm rounds stitched a line of holes across its chest, and it dropped. Monique slammed home a new magazine and resumed firing just as Drake's MG36 ran dry.

  


His teeth clenched tightly, Andrea watched as the laptop screen suddenly filled with an image of the area below his vantage point. It was accurate down to the beleaguered figures fighting for their lives. When he shifted his mouse-cursor now, the spot under it glowed a vivid red.

As Drake and Monique fought their way to safety, Andrea moved the mouse to the building entrance and clicked on it once. He spoke into his throat-mike.

"Team Shark, get clear immediately."

  


Down the steps, Drake heard the order. Lifting Wolf up, he threw the man bodily into the street, heedless of the damage he was causing. Without time for niceties, Drake then grabbed Monique by the waist of her pants. One jerk sent her sprawling to relative safety.

Unslinging the empty machinegun, Drake threw it at the massed aliens and ran for it, stopping only to help the spluttering German woman to her feet. Between them, they dragged the Colonel clear.

Behind them, the aliens had exited the building; some clung to the facade wall like obscene, black spiders, and others milled for a moment about the stair landing. With a final screech of triumph, the monsters surged down towards the street. The massed fire from the rest of the Italian Mafia did little to assuage the ebony tide.

  


Part of the money spent by the U.S. Army during the Ronald Reagan presidency had been directed into the now-famous Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI) program. Under a veil of utmost secrecy, a single prototype defense satellite had been launched under this initiative. Unfortunately, it never fulfilled its role as an antimissile weapon.

In the following years, however, technology advanced tremendously. This allowed high-speed targeting capabilities, although this was still insufficient to cope with a rapidly-moving projectile. It was, however, more than enough to allow pinpoint targeting of a fixed target.

Not that anybody had tried to do so until X-Com had quietly brought the weapon under its jurisdiction.

Originally fitted with a single low-power X-ray test laser, this prototype had been upgraded when the budget and time allowed. Since it had never been meant as anything more than a test platform, it was small in size. Over the course of seven years and twenty-eight space shuttle missions later, it had expanded to the size of the Mir space station, holding four megawatt X-ray laser generators linked in series. X-Com had reworked it into a first-strike space bombardment weapon, capable of projecting a devastating cylinder of laser energy fully ten meters in diameter.

The signal from Andrea's laptop was duly logged and processed by the satellite's CPU. The SDI platform linked into the various GPS satellites already in orbit, telling the targeting mechanism just where it was supposed to be pointed at. Kept powered-up at all times, the laser generators hummed quietly to themselves as each fired a single low energy pulse at a central focusing lens as a test blast. The CPU recorded all systems as nominal, with optimum focus for firing at the given distance, with the given atmospheric conditions.

Simultaneously, a radar scan of the projected area of effect took was executed. Computations were performed, confirming that the payload could be delivered with no significant obstacles impeding its delivery.

Satisfied, the CPU opened the generators to full-power and sent a lance of X-rays down to Earth.

  


The deadly beam was completely invisible to those on the surface of the Earth. Halfway across the street, Drake knew for certain that they were all dead when the aliens came out of the building.

In the next moment, the X-ray beam struck, centred on the stairs. The intensity of the energy superheated the immediate surrounding area, literally vaporizing everything in the blast radius. For over two seconds, while the beam was in existence, all matter inside the X-ray cylinder was in its gaseous form. From outside the blast radius, it looked as if the road was evaporating, the vapour visible as black streaks. The aliens never knew what hit them.

As the X-ray blast dissipated, normal physics took over and returned the vapour to its solid form, although the new structure of the affected area was nothing like its previous structure. The building front had half caved-in, brick and mortar running together in a vile soup. The stairs were little more than a half-meter high pudding of material, mixed with large, blackened spots. The portion of road caught inside the blast cylinder was still glowing a dull red, and the smell was enough to make anyone retch.

The sudden ionization/deionization of the air inside the blast column also produced certain side effects. The heat generated by the X-ray discharge had to go somewhere, and it was radiated radially away from the impact epicentre. Although the actual range of the heat wave thus generated was not particularly great, it was more than sufficient to encompass the surviving Shark Team members. By the time the column of power faded away, they had all been very badly sunburned.

More disastrous was the blast wave produced by the same physical ionization/deionization. This rapidly propagating wave had about the same range as the heat wave, and it hit with the force of a strong gale. While this was usually no great inconvenience to anyone firmly planted on their feet, it swept the unbalanced Team Shark survivors into the rather unforgiving walls of the buildings opposite the street. Their cries of outrage and surprise were drowned out by the accompanying clatter of debris as they crashed against a collection of dustbins.

  


"_Madre di Dio_," Giovanni gasped in awe, staring at the scene of destruction before him, five stories below.

"_Si_," Andrea agreed. He shut down the laptop after five minutes, making sure that nothing else was coming out from the building. The X-Com security officer tapped his throat mike. "Team Shark, report."

"SAW, alive," a voice croaked after a minute or two. "Medic, too, but her mike is out."

"The rest of the team?"

"The Colonel isn't doing too good. If we get him to a hospital, he might actually live. Robert should be OK, he didn't take too much damage. I think. Everyone else ... well ..."

"Roger, Shark SAW. Ivan is already in the ambulance, and we'll load the rest of your wounded in and take them to the hospital."

"Roger that, Control."

"I'm afraid you'll have to go back in there, Shark SAW. We have two members of Shark still MIA."

"Don't I know it! OK, Monique and I are on it. Out."

  


The ambulance was on its way with its load barely three and a half minutes later. A battered Drake and Monique rallied a small group of a half-dozen Mafia to go back inside the building. Not surprisingly, all of them were rather shaken. The pair procured Uzis from their allies and went back to the site of the battle.

Alert now to the possibility that the dead might not be so dead, they stopped by ever so often to place a round into the head of an enemy body. Fortunately, nothing else jumped out at them. The antechamber where the team had been nearly overwhelmed was completely soaked in blood when they reached it. Bodies had been torn asunder with inhuman force, and the walls were covered in an unholy paint of red and green. Blobs of greyish-white alien tissue mixed freely with human guts.

Pulling aside half a torso, Monique found what was left of Mariko. Turning away in disgust at the mess, the German bottled her anger and grief. There were protocols to be followed. Since X-Com was technically still a secret organization, she had to eliminate all traces of their passing. First of all, Monique reached out and grabbed hold of her comrade's XCR, then tugged out all the magazines still in the armour pockets. She slung the XCR cross-wise over her body, packing the retrieved magazines into her own pockets. Next, Monique plunged her fingers into the drying mask of blood and pulled out Mariko's dogtags. These she slipped into a breast pocket.

The easy part complete, the German medic then proceeded to haul the corpse out into the open. It was no trivial task; kept in place by the drying glue of blood and innards, Monique had to get Drake's help. Together, they ripped the body free and placed it tenderly down outside in the corridor. Drake had to make a second trip to retrieve an arm that had been sliced free.

Plunging back into the room, Drake rummaged around some more, eventually finding Pieter more or less intact. Amazingly, the Russian was still alive. He was breathing slowly but evenly, as if asleep, and the area around his mouth was covered in some sort of mucus. As Drake muscled him free, Pieter's XCR slipped from nerveless fingers to clatter on to the floor. Monique took hold of the fallen weapon, then moved to assist Drake.

It was then that she noticed the disturbing discolourations under his skin. Pieter's normally pale skin was blotched and mottled underneath, and the worst part were the bumps that moved up and down and eventually vanished into the deeper tissue. All too aware that the aliens who had exploded from the dead cultists had to have been implanted somehow, Monique filled a syringe with a powerful sedative and pumped it into the unconscious Russian. If they could get him back to base alive, they might somehow save him.

Their grim task complete, Drake radioed Andrea to call down Recovery. This time, though, it would not just be a clean-up job; Recovery would have to set demolition charges and bring down this building, just to keep the alien secret safe. Personally, though, Andrea thought that was a waste of time; this battle had been witnessed by practically everyone living in this street, although they had been smart enough to keep their heads down.

It was a very quiet wait for Recovery.

  



	8. Crisis In Medical

Like any other elite unit in the world, Team Rattler put in more than its far share of training; but instead of taking the ridiculously monotonous route through the base service corridors, Ishiyama had taken his group out for a run around the X-Com base island. It was a fairly short run, and the Japanese commander had to take his team around the route four times, clocking a decent ten kilometres in slightly over forty minutes. Not particularly fast, but the chance to get out and soak in the sunshine was a welcome break from the unrelenting gloom of the underground installation.

Serving as their physical training instructor this morning, Ricardo called the members of Team Rattler to a quick march, then slowed to a normal pace before stopping. After a quick ten minutes of cooling down, the sergeant handed command back to Ishiyama. Assembled into neat ranks, Team Rattler took the cargo lift back down to the shooting range. They would practice on tactical targets today, shooting at steel pop-up cut-outs of aliens.

They drew their weapons from the armourer, each man taking on his specialist weapon, as well as an XCR. Because of the scarcity of space, the range was built only up to 300 meters, with firing cells to isolate each member. At the extreme range of this was the target pop-up mechanism, common to practically every automated range system in the world. Where greater distance was required, the system put up a target 'screen', around which were arrayed several measurement microlasers. The idea was that as a bullet passed through the screen, the lasers would take measurements of the bullet velocity, angle of 'impact', and several other critical factors. Proprietary software then used these inputs to calculate if the bullet would hit or miss a target at some given pre-determined range. The entire system was sophisticated enough to even simulate differing weather conditions, from snow to a clear day, and their effects on the bullet.

Of course, no matter how advanced the software used was, nothing would substitute for real, combat experience.

It was really quite unfair, Ricardo found himself thinking. As Team Rattler's sniper, Leonard was capable of putting a round into a Coke can at better than 300 meters, even without his monster PSG-1. At that kind of range, the can was barely visible, unless one cheated and used the scope mounted on the XCR. When questioned about it, Leonard always answered with 'instinct'.

That instinct had never failed him. The current tactical target was of a quarter-profile snakeman behind 75% 'cover', at 150 meters; not an easy shot, but not wholly impossible. Several Team Rattler members had already managed to hit the target, but Leonard aimed to go one step better. Brimming with confidence, the sniper called out to the rest of the team.

"Hey, anybody want to bet that I can put a couple of rounds through the eye?"

A chorus of groans greeted this; Leonard really _was_ as good as his word. Nobody bothered to take up the offer; they had all lost enough pay to the cocky sniper. Ricardo decided that it was finally payback time.

"I'll take that. Give you five to one odds that you'll miss." He pulled a bill from a pocket and waved it at the sniper. "Here's my twenty bucks."

Grinning, Leonard acknowledged the sergeant's offer with a nod. The rest of the team clustered around his position, a respectful distance away as the sniper snapped the scope off the top of his rifle receiver. He put away the scope in a pocket, then lifted the weapon to his shoulder. He sighted along the primitive iron sights, took a quick breath, and squeezed off two shots in rapid succession. Utterly confident that the rounds had hit, Leonard centred his sights on the target 'forehead', then triggered a triple-round burst.

"Well?" He smirked at Ricardo as he safed the rifle and set it down.

Ricardo only smiled and motioned for the sniper to look at the range results. This was displayed on a small screen mounted next to each firing cell; the system would show the target, with red dots marking each bullet hit, and the total score was clearly visible as a similarly bright red, labelled header.

Leonard took one look at the screen before freezing in astonishment.

Not a single round had hit.

"Well, indeed!" Ricardo scoffed. His grin broadened. "Pay up, Leo!"

The sniper jammed his face into the display, clearly unbelieving.

"Impossible!" Leo proceeded to give voice to language that would have made the hardiest drill sergeant blush.

"Pay up!" Ricardo nudged him again, none too gently. This time, the other squad members joined their voices with the sergeant. Amidst a chorus of 'pay up', Leo reluctantly pulled out a hundred dollar note and handed it over to Ricardo.

As Leonard walked away dejectedly, the firing officer in charge of the shooting range walked up to Ricardo, a broad grin on his face. "Where's my share, Ric?"

The other team members could only stare on in amazement as the heavy gunner handed over a fifty without another word. "Thanks for the assist, Clark."

The other flipped a half-salute as he turned and walked off.

"You know the guy?" Ishiyama stared at the officer's retreating back.

"Yeah," Ricardo answered. "Used to be the rangemaster at Fort Meade. One of my buddies."

"Small world," someone else observed. "So how did he do it?"

"Reset the board every time Leo fired a shot." The heavy gunner explained. "Just to be fair to Leo, though, I'll buy him the next round of drinks at the canteen!"

Which, everybody knew, served the worst, watered-down beer this side of the world. The team filed out, heading towards the showers, with much hooting and jeering.

  


Their clean-up session was rudely interrupted, however, with an urgent summons to the Command and Control Centre over the PA. There was a mad scramble as squad members hurriedly pulled on clean fatigues over still-wet bodies, with much choice swearing at the timing. Team Rattler found CINXCOM already 'on-screen' in the CCC. Also present were the various heads of departments, the medical section chief, and their security chief. Andrea had not showered since his return from Italy, and it showed; he was still grimy and sweat-plastered, and the lines around his eyes were tense.

"What took you so long?" CINXCOM demanded as the team walked in. "Never mind. We have a real serious problem."

"Sir?" Ishiyama voiced after looking at the others. He knew that Team Shark had gone on a mission prior to this, and from the tone of CINXCOM's voice, the news could not be good. It drove even thoughts of his wet feet in his boots from his mind.

Andrea confirmed this. "We do not really have a Team Shark anymore."

Ricardo paused halfway while sitting down. "What?"

The security chief ran a hand through his hair. "The Sicily mission was a slaughter. We came up against some new type of alien that hides in its hosts. You already know that there is the possibility of alien infiltrators and traitors who help them. Anyway, we went after a cell of these traitors, and shot them apart. That's when the aliens appeared and basically murdered Team Shark. Colonel Wolf is in intensive care right now; if he gets through the next week or so, he'll survive."

"But recovery will take ... oh, six months or so." Head medical officer Dr. Alistair Morgan interjected. He picked up a piece of paper on the table before him and read it. "Multiple fractures all over the ribcage, and a cracked sternum. I'm surprised the Colonel survived all that."

Team Rattler listened in horrified shock as Alistair continued. "One of the Russians, Pieter, might not make it at all. Seems like he's been infected with some type of alien parasite. We're monitoring him right now, but it doesn't look very good."

"The other Russian, Ivan, he is down with a broken collarbone; that means four months in recovery for him. Only Drake and Monique are still around, although they have post-combat shock." Andrea took over again. "These new aliens, they move like ... how do you Americans say it, 'greased lightning'."

"Your English pathfinder is out of commission, too," Dr. Morgan added. "He has a broken wrist and a torn bicep. Lower scaphoid area; that'll take up to six months to heal. We've packed him back to England on extended leave."

"Worse," CINXCOM said at this point, "there are cult cells over the globe. We must assume that each cultist is now an alien host. We'll keep Pieter under observation to try and find some way to get rid of the alien bug ..."

A beep came from Dr. Morgan's pager at that point. He glanced down at it, then sprang to his feet. "It's a code red alarm; Pieter's condition must be deteriorating in a hurry. Excuse me, gentlemen."

The doctor disappeared out of the door with that.

"My lab boys working on those new alien bodies Team Shark brought back," Paul McNeilly put in then. "We should have a more or less complete overview of the monster in two days."

"Where were those heavy-weapon platforms we were supposed to get?" Andrea massaged his temples wearily. "They would have been greatly appreciated in Sicily."

Engineering was represented by Viktor Wiesboski this time; his boss was in sick-bay after getting careless with a hammer. "Inbound, sir. 48 hours, no more."

"_A fanculo!_" The security chief suddenly lost his temper. "What takes it so long?!"

"Stealth, taxes, the usual red tape," CINCXCOM supplied. "Calm down, Andrea. We cannot afford overly visible transport of our equipment."

"Sir," Andrea bit off every word. "Everyone in Palermo already knows about the aliens!"

"A minor inconvenience," CINCXOM said mildly. "There will always be rumours - it isn't reasonable to expect Recovery to get all the traces, anyway. I'm not going to beat you over the head about using the SDI platform either, Andrea, I gave you those codes to use. Besides, with the amount of traffic in space nowadays, it can hardly go un-noticed."

The fiery Italian blew up then. "There are dead people, sir! That is not some 'minor inconvenience'!"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Dr. McNeilly interrupted hurriedly before CINCXCOM could reply. "Perhaps we should get back to matters at hand? We need recruits, and quickly, too."

There was an uncomfortable silence as Andrea stared at the blank screen from which CINCXCOM's voice emanated. Finally, the blank screen spoke again.

"Andrea, I understand that you are upset. But everyday, I have to make decisions to send good men to their deaths. Have you ever woken up in the middle of the night, hearing their voices asking why they had to die? Even worse, why they had to die without ever knowing what they had died for?"

When the security chief failed to answer, CINCXCOM addressed the rest of the group. "Fresh recruits will be in within 48 hours. We need, what ... seven of them?"

"Yes, sir, though more would be nice," Dr. McNeilly answered. "Are we counting our HWP drivers in?"

"Yes," Viktor said. "They're the ones who gets to 'take care' of the HWPs on their way in."

"So ..."

Whatever Paul was going to say then was interrupted by the alarms going off.

  


In Medical, Dr. Morgan pushed through the doors of the Intensive Care Unit, homing in on the fifth cell from the main doors. Each cell held a bed, replete with all types of medical equipment to monitor the patient, and was fitted with transparent, shatter-proof plastic walls. Even as he dashed in, out of force of habit, he sneaked a quick peek at his other patient in the first cell; Colonel Wolf's vital signs had not improved since this afternoon, but then again, neither had they deteriorated.

Thank God he only had two patients in here!

Two medics were already with Pieter, one jabbing an IV into a vein, and the other frantically trying to read all the monitoring equipment at the same time. Alistair took all this in with one professional glance, immediately noting heart rate going way past normal, neural activity was going equally wild, and those disturbing colourations and bumps under the Russian's skin were becoming more pronounced.

"Situation?"

"Not sure, sir," one of the medics answered. "Something ..."

He never got any farther.

With a sound like ripping canvas, a shiny black claw tore out of Pieter's left arm, slicing upwards with unerring accuracy to catch the medic right in the throat. As Dr. Morgan and the other medic fell back in shocked horror, a second claw detached itself from Pieter's other arm. It cut through the air and took off the unfortunate medic's head.

There was a mad rush as both men scrambled out from the cell, their white lab coats stained arterial red.

Retaining enough composture through the mind-numbing horror of it all, Alistair leaned over the nurse's counter and slammed a palm down on the button that would trigger the intruder alarm. Klaxons immediately began wailing as the doctor grabbed the weapon held under the counter. He never expected to have to sound the intruder alert, much less use the Pancor Jackhammer stashed away as a token of defence.

"Sweet Jesus," he heard the medic whisper, and was forced to turn and look into Pieter's cell.

The creature was taking its time extracting itself from Pieter's body. With both arms freed, it turned a claw chest-ward and made a single, long incision down the length of the torso. Skin split and blood fountained as the monster hauled its upper body into a sitting position.

Alistair was mesmerized by the sight. The organism's entire torso was a glistening ebony, streaked with lumps of human tissue and brilliant crimson. The beady eyes staring out of the head segment were dead and lifeless, two simple notches carved in what he knew was an armoured helmet.

Drake should have been a writer, he thought. His description's _perfect_ ...

Looking at Pieter's shredded corpse, Dr. Morgan felt the first tendrils of terror sink into his soul. _It uses a host - any host! - as a chrysalis, germinating within it and superseding its internal organs._

_Chryssalid._

All this ran through Alistair's mind as his limited weapons training miraculously kicked in. Make sure the magazine is locked in, the weapon cocked and ready, safety off. Brace against the shoulder, sight down like this. Pull the trigger.

The Jackhammer bucked in his grip, spewing a hail of 12-guage buckshot at the Chryssalid. The recoil was far less than he expected, but Alistair tucked the weapon into his shoulder even tighter, and pulled the trigger again.

Shatter-proof or not, the plastic cell walls were not designed to withstand such severe ballistic impact. The first burst cracked the plastic, the second sent even more fracture lines running throughout the entire sheet and blasted it inward.

Quick as lightning, the monster slapped aside the plastic sheet as if it were no more than a piece of paper. Then it _moved_.

There was no way Alistair could have tracked the beast. A single bound freed it from the encumbering carcass, and it leapt straight up and clung to the ceiling like some mutated insect - it even had insect-like legs, Alistair thought wildly - before exploding into motion as if fired from a gun.

The thing barrelled into the still-screaming medic and smashed him to the ground. Before Alistair's horrified eyes, the helmet split open, and he saw the white-grey face of the alien. The ovipositor tube burst out of the 'mouth' to ram into the medic's mouth in an obscene parody of a kiss. The man gave one horrified gasp before his eyes rolled up in his head and he went limp. The doctor saw the tube pulse once, before retracting.

_Oh my God, that's how they impregnate hosts. And that is what's going to happen to me ..._

Stunned by the realization, he just stood there stupidly as the creature sprang at him.

  


"What the fuck ..."

Andrea reacted far better than the shocked engineer. He grabbed his walkie-talkie and spoke rapidly into it. "Where? Medical? ICU?"

That was all he needed to know.

"Seal the area!" He shouted into the hand radio as Team Rattler started running to Medical.

  


The sight of the monster filling his vision galvanized Alistair to action. Without thinking, he jerked the weapon around to point at the Chryssalid's chest and held down the trigger.

At this range, it was practically impossible to miss, and the magazine emptied itself in a hurry straight into the alien.

The first couple of bursts stopped the fiend cold, and the next few catapulted it back into Pieter's broken cell. Green ichor spewed all over the place, mixed with congealing droplets of white goo. It landed on its back with a resounding clatter, and stayed down.

Breathing heavily, Alistair ripped the empty magazine out and dropped it to the ground. He ran around the nurse's counter and found the other two spare magazines clipped next to the Jackhammer harness. Two quick tugs later, he put one in a pocket, and slapped the other one into the empty magazine socket. Next, Alistair took a deep breath before hitting the alarm button again, triggering the mechanism which would completely isolate the ICU, dropping one-ton reinforced steel doors over all exits, and sliding strengthened steel plates over all vents. The computer immediately calculated that the ICU had only about an hour of oxygen left in the enclosed area, and told Alistair so.

The doctor gulped. He had just signed his own death warrant. _Hope the rest of you guys appreciate this._

That was when he saw the Chryssalid standing up again.

More amazed than horrified, Alistair stared at the alien. Its chest was a shredded mass of black tissue, plugged in more places than he could count with that white slime. It reached out a with a claw to grab the bed railing, steadying itself as it climbed shakily to its feet. The beast gave voice to a strange, croaking noise as it did so.

Then it seemed to notice the doctor.

Time slowed to a crawl as the monster once again launched itself through the air, and the ICU once again echoed with the sound of gunfire.

  


Team Rattler made it down to Medical in record time. Along the way, some biologist had managed to toss them a pair of M16s - there was a pair in most rooms for defence, in case intruders ever penetrated this far - and a couple of other soldiers had broken away to get heavier weaponry.

Ishiyama was the first man who rounded the corner into the corridor leading to Medical's ICU, and he smashed right into the reinforced door that blocked the main doors. Roaring something in Japanese, he turned and yelled, "Open the door!"

  


Alistair was having great difficulty in aiming at the monster - it sprang left and right, and his shots kept missing. Then the Chryssalid leapt straight at him ...

  


"What?" Ishiyama shouted back.

"I said, opening one door will open them all!" The security chief had run down to Medical with them. "There's a live one in there!"

"So's one of ours," another Team Rattler member breathed as muffled gunfire sounded even through the thick door.

"Open the fucking door!" Andrea screamed into his radio.

  


He twisted aside, but not enough.

One jet-black claw caught him in the side, laying it open all the way to the bone.

Alistair screamed in agony and almost dropped the Jackhammer, crashing to the ground in a spray of blood. He could barely breathe from the pain, and he saw the monster drop into a crouch. 

Dr. Morgan struggled to fumble the Jackhammer into position with one hand amid a growing pool of his own blood.

  


The door hissed opened with an abruptness that startled Ishiyama.

But only for a second.

With the other M16-toting soldier, Edward, the Japanese team leader smashed his way through the ICU doors. He took the situation in with a single glance - Alistair groaning on the floor, the unconscious medic, the crouched alien ...

Edward beat him to the mark.

5.56mm bullets slammed into the back of the monster, knocking it into a wall as Alistair tried gamely to drag himself away from it, aided by his own blood. Ishiyama added his own bullets to the hail a moment later. With a friendly target in the way, the rest of the team held off fire with their sidearms.

With a squeal of anger, the Chryssalid launched itself straight into the hail of lead, ignoring the bits of armour and flesh that were being stripped from its body. Ishiyama and Edward backed away hastily as it came over the nurse's counter, but the creature's fate was sealed when Ricardo and another trooper came running in with XCRs.

Somehow managing to drag himself and the Jackhammer next to the unconscious medic, Alistair caught sight of the man's skin darkening ...

"Oh God, no," Alistair croaked, trying to make himself heard over the thunder of automatic fire. "Another one ..."

The downed medic exploded in gore as the germinating Chryssalid hurled itself at Team Rattler, completely ignoring the severely wounded doctor.

Even as the first Chryssalid succumbed to Team Rattler's fire, the second monster cleared the distance between the surprised soldiers in mere seconds. One claw reached out and knocked Ishiyama's M16 out of his hand, and the other got Edward glancingly, but hard enough to slam him against a wall with a bleeding shoulder.

Ricardo had recovered enough by then, and the first of many Duplex rounds punched into the Chryssalid, spraying green blood and whitish flesh all over. The others joined in with their sidearms then, and the monster went down quickly.

"Medic!" Ricardo screamed, then realized the sheer absurdity of the call when they were just one corridor away from Medical. Paramedics were already rushing to Alistair's aid, with the other doctor already scrubbing in the operating theatre. Some ran into Colonel Wolf's ICU cell to check on him; surprisingly, it was completely intact, apart from stray rounds which had scratched the tough plastic walls.

As they carried Alistair out, they all heard him groaning.

"They grow in _minutes_ ..."

  


***

  


It was midnight when they landed.

The earthlings' technology was so primitive, Kark wondered how they managed to progress this far up the evolutionary ladder. It had been child's play to come in from the moon's shadow, completely avoiding any sort of the archaic radar emanations that were so popular on this planet.

Worse, their biological shortcomings were so severe, just how had they survived? They couldn't even see in the dark!

He surveyed the wreckage of the listening outpost. There were no bodies, of course; he had expected that. Who was the Overseer in-charge here? Ah, Keylmir, you arrogant fool, looks like the 'pathetic, helpless children' you so derided got the better of you.

Putting aside his personal feelings, Kark rubbed his good eye. He had traded in the other eye for a Formian Dragon, and a highly advanced - the best of _Tel' Istar_ technology - biomechanical replacement now sat in the eye socket.

It had been an abominably long flight. First, Lord Overseer Orvax's orders had come down that he was in-charge of the Mars base. And the Lord Overseer had wanted him to leave yesterday. A hurried two hours later, Kark was at the Mars base; Orvax had not even given him five minutes to pack. The Overseer growled at the memory. A promotion, yes, but the _indignity_ of it all? As if he were some lackey to be pushed around ...

The minute he had touched down at the Mars base, the former commander, one of the psychic _Tel' Istar_, had curtly informed him that they had lost contact with a listening post on Earth, and that it was _his_ problem now.

Kark had let him walk two steps away before shooting him in the back - punishment for his insolence. Damned Guardian.

After another five hours, Kark was now stuck here in these claustrophobic corridors. How in the universe had Keylmir managed to walk without hunching his shoulders? Kark wondered. He punched aside a fallened steel beam and continued on his way to the communications and data collection center.

Trailing behind him were his two bodyguards, clutching plasma rifles and levitating sedately. Two of the scouts were already there, their oversized heads bobbing anxiously as they examined how crudely the node had been cut from its mooring. One looked up to see the scowling Overseer staring at him, and pointed helplessly at the ruined node bay.

"The node is destroyed," he said unnecessarily.

Kark did not deign to acknowledge that. A thought struck him then: Orvax knew that while Kark preferred to lead from the front, he absolutely detested the Gelorian scouts. Was his promotion some sort of veiled punishment for some imagined slight?

The Overseer immediately put the thought out of his head. Orvax was not the sort to play at politics like that. If you displeased Orvax, you faced him in an honour duel. It was one of the things that Kark liked about his general.

"The ignorant humans took only the transmission orb, not the actual data core," the scout went on. "We can salvage the core with a minimum of effort."

The Overseer nodded, and left the scouts to their work. He turned on his heels, then walked down to the other end of the corridor, where Keylmir's quarters had once occupied, and the transport bay with its speeder.

The rubble here spoke eloquently of high explosive weaponry deployed in close quarters. Kark rubbed tired eyes and snorted. Keylmir had paid the price for his overconfidence, indeed - even the resilient outer skin of an Overseer could not stop a rocket.

There were two more scouts here, one of them holding up a portable analysis device and sampling the residue left behind in the ground.

"Composition of residue is mainly inorganic, traces of the earth composition known as Octol," he reported. Kark knew Octol was a very powerful detonation fuel used in earth military explosives; the formal chemical breakdown merely confirmed what experience had already told him. 

"The speeder is gone," the scout continued.

Kark frowned. Why did they always have to say the most unnecessary things? 

"What was on the speeder?" He wanted to know.

"Typical inventory is one plasma battery, two heavy plasma rifles, two standard plasma rifles, thirty units of fuel, eight advanced portable healing kits, and twelve grenades," the same scout answered.

"Ammunition?"

"Eight magazines for the heavy plasma rifles, eight more for the standard ones, and enough fuel to power at least eighty discharges from the plasma battery."

Kark swore. The accursed apes had secured quite a haul, indeed.

"Anything else?"

The scout did not have time to answer when one of his bodyguards spoke.

"Overseer, a message has arrived from the Mars base."

"Transfer to my mindlink."

The mindlink was actually a neural implant common to all _Tel' Istar_, even the psychic ones, since thoughts could not penetrate the distances separating Earth and Mars. The link activated immediately, and Kark heard the sound of the communications liaison officer in his mind.

_An infiltrator cell has been completely destroyed, Overseer._

Kark frowned. _Where?_

_Sicily, Italy._

_I know that one. Remind me who was in-charge?_

_Syrax, Overseer. He came from the Netherlands Hive, and after establishing the cell, he returned there._

_Losses?_

_Twenty-seven humans, and six Antiluvians._

_How soon can they be replaced?_

_As quickly as you wish, Overseer. Speed will necessarily compromise stealth, though - the hosts must be forcibly brought in._

_What about other cells? Have they been detected yet?_

_We suspect they might be. Monitoring of their 'technological marvel' - the Internet - has suddenly shown a great increase in the number of searches relating to 'Tenebrous' and 'Cult of Tenebrous'._

That was not unexpected. The infiltrators could not remain hidden forever, after all.

_The Earthlings are catching on. I think it is time to mount an assault of our own._

_Overseer?_

_Notify the Patriarch Xenothane. I have need of his Antiluvians._

_Yes, Overseer._

_Terminate link._

The Overseer then opened a link to his entire battle group.

_Return to the lander immediately. We are going to Amsterdam._

  


***

  


"I'm sorry," the surgeon told Andrea. "His wounds were too grievous."

"_Grazie_."

With a nod, the doctor strode away to the scrubbing room to clean up. Andrea made his own way back up to the CCC, speaking into his walkie-talkie.

"Alistair did not make it."

"That is not good," the reply crackled over the radio. "I take it I have some new aliens to work on then?"

"Yes, Dr. McNeilly. At least now we know how those things infect people. And how quickly they hatch out."

"Not quite the best way to learn," came the wry comment. "Our medical personnel were good men."

"Will you write to their families then?"

"No, that's CINCXCOM's job." For which Paul would be forever grateful. Although not a medical doctor, he valued life, too.

"Team Rattler is cleaning up right now. According to Alistair's last recommendation, the Team Shark members have been put off active duty. Our HWP drivers should get here sometime tomorrow, so Rattler should be able to field some major firepower now."

"First piece of good news I've heard all day," Andrea growled into the radio. He was tired and grimy, and his heart still ached at being forced - _again!_ - at leaving Mara behind. He vowed to bring her back here with him next time round, and regulations be damned.

"Yes," Paul agreed. "Anyway, I recommend we start rounding up the members of this Cult of Tenebrous, and put them into maximum security prisons, for a start. We can always decide what to do with them later on."

"The European Union is going to make a lot of noise," Andrea warned. The EU was, after all, quite attached to their precious Human Rights Act.

"What else can we do?"

The security chief thought about that for a while. "We can confine them to their houses, keep them under armed house arrest. We can always say they are involved in drug trafficking or money laundering or something similar. Oh, I'm here."

Having reached the CCC now, Andrea put away the radio and pushed open the door. CINCXCOM had signed off since then; no doubt somebody would brief him on what had happened in Medical. Only Paul and Viktor were still here, with M16s laid on the table. The security chief grimaced, wondering what would really have happened if the alien parasites had managed to break in here.

"That is quite a good idea," Viktor said. "But it will need to be done all at the same time. Co-ordinating such an effort is never easy at best, disastrous at worst."

"_Si_," Andrea agreed. "But we can deal with it region by region. Better still, if we leak out word that the cult branches are doing unsanctioned dealings, the local underground will deal with them for us."

"CINCXCOM isn't going to like that," Dr. McNeilly observed. "Those aliens are bound to retaliate, and before you know it, they'll be splashed all over the newspapers and tabloids."

The Italian shrugged. "Too bad. It is not as if people are unaware of them, anyway. We have already had two high-profile missions, remember? One in that small town right here in the States, and the other in Italy. People know the aliens exist, they know we exist."

"But at the first mention of aliens, we're going to get mass hysteria," Viktor objected.

"That's the control freaks in government talking," Paul snapped. "I actually agree with Andrea - we need to go public."

"It's not the hysteria I'm worried about, Paul," the engineer assured him. "It's the idiots who'll argue for a new Alien Rights Act, and go over and become their agents."

"That's treason to humanity," Andrea pointed out. "We can shoot them for that."

"First, we'll have to catch them," Paul sighed. "I see your point, Viktor."

"So? What do we do?"

"Let's just leave it at that for the moment," Andrea said. "But I vote for tipping off local underground organizations."

"So do I," Paul admitted. "You object, of course, Viktor?"

"Of course. But the others will need to vote on it, too."

"What others?"

"Well, the department heads and sub-heads, especially Operations, and CINCXCOM will need to be notified, too."

"You're a stickler for the book, aren't you, Viktor?" Andrea scowled. "You forget, I'm in Operations, too."

"OK, then, you bring up our proposal up to Ops. And no, I don't particularly like the book, but we're running this democratically."

"Not _too_ democratically, I hope. Too many people voting and arguing and we'll never get anything done."

"That's why CINCXOM has got final say."

"Alright, we'll get an informal vote and then put it to CINCXCOM first thing tomorrow morning."

  



	9. Escape

Chapter 9  
  
Kalvar was seated at his desk, reading through the latest reports on the Holonet, when someone politely knocked on his door.  
"Enter," he called.  
The door hissed open and his Balorian aide, Tynovir, walked in. But the confident Balorian Kalvar knew was nowhere in sight. Tynovir was visibly worried and nervous. He palmed the door shut behind him.  
"Ah, Tynovir," Kalvar greeted him. "I was just …"  
His surprised was complete when the big Balorian reached out a meaty hand and yanked Kalvar to his feet. Surprise turned into shock as Tynovir thrust a plasma gun into his hands.  
"Councilor Kalvar," he hissed. "Please listen. Orvax is about to begin a systematic purge of all Guardians and all those with Guardian sympathies. He is going to declare all Guardians traitors and outlaws."  
"When …" Kalvar was so startled, he forgot about the deadly pistol in his hand.  
"Just," Tynovir interrupted. "He will announce it the day after, well after the purges have began. I … overheard him say so."  
Kalvar knew what Tynovir was referring to. He might be a Balorian, but he was also a Guardian to the core, and absolutely loyal to Kalvar. Oh, Tynovir, my heart aches for you, Kalvar thought. You did not betray your kind by bringing this information to me …  
Tynovir smiled wanly. "The Guardians present our best hope for defeating the Ancient Foe, I know. Orvax is wrong. Now come. Several others will also be going with you. The shuttle is already prepared."  
"I will not forget this," Kalvar told him. "Thank you, old friend."  
  
They were almost to the docking bay when a team of Antiluvians spotted them.  
No words were spoken, nor were any needed.  
The sleek, lethal terror troops bounded forward, claws extended.  
"GO!" Tynovir shouted, roughly shoving Kalvar forward. He turned and drew another plasma gun, and started cracking away. Civilians cried out and dove desperately for cover.  
Even though he was genetically modified – indeed, optimized – for war, the Antiluvians' blinding speed was almost more than his target acquisition system could handle. The microprocessors in his skull whirred frantically as countless calculations were performed and discarded, and eventual firing solutions were suggested within milliseconds. Ghostly, greenish targeting crosshairs were suddenly overlaid on his normal vision, and Tynovir took full advantage of those.  
Red pulses of energy lashed out from his twin pistols. One Antiluvian was shot twice in the head, its protective exoskeleton shredding and vaporizing. It stumbled a good two meters more before Tynovir punched another six holes in its thorax, and it went down with a crash.  
More crimson blasts flashed past him from behind. Tynovir groaned inwardly; Kalvar could not shoot to save his life – a food vendor screeched his outrage as his stall was demolished, and a Gelorian fainted dead away as a lucky shot creased his brow.  
A dozen more times Tynovir fired, and then his pistols ran dry. At the end of that, four Antiluvians lay still on the ground, their blasted and charred carcasses smoking. But there were still four more, and they leapt at him.  
"Run, Councilor," Tynovir screamed. "RUN!"  
  
The door to Councilor Kalvar's chambers exploded in a blaze of plasma fire and shrapnel. Through the smoking ruin, the first newly-christened members of Orvax's Guardian-purging squad stepped through.  
The team leader strode confidently through, utterly certain in his knowledge that the cowardly Guardian would be hiding underneath the bed.  
"Councilor Kalvar," he began. "Our Lord Overseer Orvax grants that you are a Guardian and a traitor …"  
He paused as he noticed that nobody was around.  
Raising his plasma gun suspiciously, he beckoned the rest of his squad in and they began searching.  
  
The first one met his fist. Chitin armour shattered completely under the blow, and the creature reeled back. Tynovir lunged with his other hand, punching his huge hand clean through the cracked armour. He felt something soft and squishy underneath his fingers, so he made a fist around it and yanked.  
The Antiluvian collapsed as Tynovir literally ripped out its heart.  
Spinning with the momentum, the Balorian twirled a graceful pirouette and kicked out with a foot, knocking another Antiluvian aside. His reflexes at a razor edge, Tynovir parried another four blows and took only one for his trouble.  
Fast though he was, though, the Antiluvians were even faster. As the assault massed against him, his blows struck air more often than not, and before long Tynovir was bleeding from dozens of cuts. His medical program kicked into overdrive; signals that his skin had been breached were transmitted to stored nanobots, and these quickly flooded out to the various cuts and bruises on his body.  
But as quickly as the miniature devices sutured his wounds, the Antiluvians opened more. Enraged, Tynovir got lucky and slammed a right cross into one Antiluvian. The impact blasted it from its feet and into a nearby wall, smashing clean through the metallic alloy.  
But there were still two sets of razor-sharp claws reaching out for him.  
  
Sir, there is nothing, and no-one, here.  
Even a cursory examination revealed that. The place was just too quiet, too empty.  
Are you certain? Orvax's voice came across the mindlink.  
Yes, sir …  
That was when he caught sight of the grenade sitting on top of Kalvar's desk. The activation LED blinked mischievously at him, a single, red Cyclopean eye on the grenade exterior.  
  
The area was rapidly clearing of civilians, and Tynovir knew that it would not be long before reinforcements arrived. There was no way he could defeat two Antiluvians in hand-to-hand combat before that happened.  
He blocked a claw and twisted sharply to avoid another …  
… right into another that was coming at him from behind.  
Tynovir screamed in agony. Internal diagnostics told him that his kidney had been lacerated.  
Three Antiluvians now! The one he had hit had not stayed down. Furious, Tynovir ignored the other two as he reached out to grab his latest attacker.  
But his hands closed on nothingness, and now three sets of claws reached out to cut even more deeply into his scarred body.  
  
What is it? Orvax practically shouted down the mindlink, furious partly at the interruption, and partly because the Guardian-purging squad had not found Kalvar at his quarters.  
Sir, my apologies for interrupting you, but Councilor Kalvar and his aide have been seen down at …  
So what are you waiting for! Apprehend them immedia …  
A scream echoed down the mindlink.  
  
His tracking implant told Tynovir that his trap had gone off as planned. That made him glad despite the dire circumstances that he was caught in.  
Unfortunately, that notification came in the form of a distracting blinking red light, in the top right-hand corner of his combat awareness program, superimposed over his normal vision. Tynovir acknowledged it with barely a thought, and the light ceased blinking.  
But it had been a distraction.  
Enough that he missed a parry, and a claw came in and seared his chest, then his throat, with pain.  
  
The grenade exploded.  
The explosive effect triggered, in turn, the other six grenades taped to the underside of Kalvar's desk.  
The result blew out half this floor of the skyscraper, and tore out a good portion of the two stories above and below ground zero, too. Kalvar's neighbours never knew what hit them.  
The hit squad certainly did, but no-one heard their screams as they were atomized.  
  
Grasping his torn throat with one hand, Tynovir punched out desperately with the other. His medical program was already working overtime, sending out wave after wave of nanobots to repair the gashes in his flesh. A mental command told the program that the throat injury held top priority, and all nanobots were redirected to that wound.  
Despite the pain, the Balorian was skilled enough to deflect another three blows, then a claw cut right through his hamstring and felled him. At the same time, the medical program chirped and cheerfully told him that while his throat wound was no longer life-threatening, he had exhausted his medical nanobots supply, and would he kindly report to the nearest medical point for an immediate resupply, and since he was military, he would get top priority …  
He is so dead, Tynovir thought grimly. If I live through this, I am going to find the moron who wrote this medical program and administer it to him through the nearest convenient orifice.  
The program finally shut up, and the Balorian was left wondering if things could get any worse.  
Raising himself on his one remaining good leg, Tynovir gave a final roar of defiance and brought his fists together. Leaping, he powered the double-handed hammer-blow clean through the skull of one Antiluvian.  
His hopes soared as the creature crumpled to the ground like a rock. The other two fell back a moment.  
Hah, Tynovir thought wildly. I'm winning!  
That was when he heard a familiar voice call out, "Hold on, Tynovir! Help has arrived!"  
The Balorian had time enough to curse at that stupid Kalvar before an Antiluvian lanced a claw across his face.  
  
The death agonies of the squad leader came flashing back up the mindlink, and the psychic backlash all but knocked Orvax from his feet.  
As he clutched his throbbing head, a passing glance out from his office window – fully a mile up from the ground streets – showed a huge fireball billowing out from a building in the nearby Councillor's District.  
  
"Kalvar," Orvax breathed through the haze of pain. "Damn you!"  
  
Reeling from his broken face, Tynovir refused to collapse. He would go down fighting, or he would not go down at all!  
His surprise was complete when a dazzling barrage of sapphire plasma bolts punched into the remaining Antiluvians, completely missing him even though he was standing right in the middle of the fray.  
"When did you learn to shoot like that?" Tynovir asked Kalvar as he struggled to his feet.  
A strong arm caught Tynovir, then, and helped him up. The Balorian found himself facing Byrak, not Kalvar. The Sastrian councilor was clutching a plasma rifle in one hand.  
"He didn't," the serpent grinned. "Kalvar never could shoot to save his life. But I can."  
Relief washed over the Balorian, and he started to laugh. But his slashed ribs pulled, and Tynovir winded up wincing instead.  
"Now, quit malingering," Byrak continued. "We've got a shuttle to catch. Destination: Earth."  
  
* * *  
  
It is said that when one is dying, images from one's life flash past one's eyes.  
Wolf did not experience that. No fanciful, Technicolour slideshow of the life he had led. Just a dull, throbbing pain that thrummed through his entire body, kept almost bearable by the morphine.  
He knew enough of what had happened. The blood, the steaming guts, the slaughter. Vividly, Wolf recalled the pale, smooth skin of dead Mariko's throat, moments before he saw a glistening black claw slice it open.  
Not that he had never seen death up close. On the contrary, Wolf was usually the one who got called in whenever somebody needed somebody else put six feet under. He smiled as he remembered why Group 13 called him Wolf.  
Group 13 – the clandestine operations team that specialized in assassinations.  
Covertly run by the United States government, more secretive than the CIA, and far more lethal than the Vietnam War's Special Operations Groups. A team of trained killers with no conscience, all skilled in any number of guns, bows, knives, and unarmed combat.  
The names came back more slowly …  
James Blackwell, Dennis Drakemore, Winston Clarke, and Machiko Tanaka.  
Especially Machiko.  
They were his bunch, his clique. Each one was unique, with special talents. Wolf remembered James, with a smile that never faded as he delicately vivisected his victims; he had always wanted to do the children. And Dennis, a crazed fire-lover, who torched everything and everyone who got in the way during missions.  
They were all gone now. Wolf had seen to that. Even Winston, who had been friendliest with him, who had taught Wolf how to shoot properly. Who had loved Machiko as much as he had.  
Winston had seen the sparks between Machiko and Wolf, killers drawn to each other. But Winston was also a jealous, obsessive, and dangerous psychopath, one trait that made him irresistible to Group 13. He hid all that underneath tousled blonde hair, brilliant baby-blues, and a ready smile.  
He remembered Machiko's fine, porcelain features. It was a result of a mixed marriage between a Japanese father and a Swedish mother. It came out perfectly in Machiko, and Wolf had loved her the moment he set eyes on her.  
It did not matter that she was as calculating and cold a killer as he was; an acknowledged expert at seven different forms of martial arts. With him, she was charming, warm, and loving. With him, she could, and did, show a more delicate and caring side of herself.  
Winston Clarke had watched all this, his usual charming self on the outside, but seething and boiling on the inside.  
On his thirty-second birthday, Machiko had given him a priceless gift – a katana forged by the hands of the master Sadakazu himself. It had been in her family since 1906, when Gassan Sadakazu and Miyamoto Kanenori were appointed craftsmen to the Japanese Imperial Household, and the art of swordmaking was recognized as a true part of the cultural heritage of Japan. Characteristic of a Gassan blade, the katana bore an ayasugi fabric of concentric grain lines, etched directly into the steel itself, giving it an incredibly fine, wood-like texture.  
Machiko had wanted Wolf to have it, as a symbol of her love for him. She had trained him in its use, too. The refined, folded steel still retained its lethal edge, and Wolf soon became an expert in it.  
They had shared many special, tender moments; it brought out the humanity in both of them again. They were thinking of quitting Group 13 to raise a family outside, when Winston Clarke snapped.  
He came for them one night, screaming insanely and his paired Magnums blazing. Machiko never stood a chance – she took 14 bullets in the chest. Wolf remembered seeing her bloodied body jerk as the powerful rounds hit it continuously.  
He had taken two rounds himself, one lodging in his left leg, the other blowing through his left arm. But it takes only one hand to thrust a katana, as Winston found out; the blade had slid smoothly between his ribs, pierced his heart, and came out from his back.  
"Winston's dead," he had told his superiors much later on. "I killed him."  
"We know exactly what happened," they replied. "You were not to blame."  
"Anyways, I want out," he continued, still in shock. "Machiko wants out with me, too."  
"She's dead, Wolf," they reminded him. "Besides, nobody ever gets out. Here's your next assignment."  
So he had gone out and finished that job. And the next. And another one.  
He no longer felt anything inside, but his temper remained explosive. James crossed him once, mistakenly passing him salt instead of sugar for his tea, and Wolf had whipped his bread knife across James's chest, scarring him for life.  
James had never forgiven Wolf, even after his team was dissolved.  
Eventually, Wolf had been labeled far too unstable to work with anyone, anymore. They had put him on high risk assignments, with the lowest survival probabilities. But he kept coming back, again and again.  
Fortunately, before they decided to just simply shoot him, X-Com showed up on Group 13's doorstep. Wolf was transferred to X-Com, where his combat skills could be put to good use.  
The transfer had given him something back. It still hurt deep down inside, but that murderous rage now had a proper target. Eventually, he knew that he and Machiko would be together again.  
Bet your sorry ass on it. But in the meantime …  
Wolf pushed himself through the sedating fog. Pain wracked his arm as he hit the nurse's station alert button, and he croaked into it.  
"Somebody bring me a gun. I've still got a job to do."  
  
* * *  
  
Kark's personal flagship was a Starfire-class battlecruiser. Fully four hundred meters in length, it boasted six graviton impulse drives; at full speeds, it was capable of pushing its eight-hundred ton mass through space at almost four times the speed of light. Named the Warhawk, the cruiser fielded eight plasma pulsars as its primary armament, backed by ten multi-lasers, two solid-shot mass accelerators to deal with hard targets, and six antimatter torpedo batteries.  
Enough firepower to lay waste to entire cities in mere minutes.  
However cluttered the space around Earth was, something the size of the Warhawk was bound to attract unwanted attention. That had forced Kark to take a small Sunstar-class scout ship down to the Earth's surface itself, where he had investigated the loss of an observation post, and subsequently, flown to Amsterdam in the Netherlands.  
As he had left the ruins of the observation post, Kark had summoned a troop carrier to rendezvous at the Amsterdam Hive. Already manned by a flight crew of four Sastrians, it held a further eight heavy troopers, and this was currently being further augmented by a complement of twelve Antiluvian fighters.  
Kark oversaw the loading process, and the view of his soldiers standing smartly in disciplined ranks filled his heart with pride. The war was beginning, and Humanity would not stand a chance.  
"Impressive, Overseer."  
The Balorian turned to face the Hive Patriarch itself. Standing just above three meters, Xenothane was a mass of scything talons and shredding teeth, an awesome sight to behold. As the focal point of the Hive, the Patriarch seldom left the throne of bio-resin which usually ensconced his frame, but it was not often that a planetary Overseer came a-visiting, and Xenothane had made special allowances for that.  
"Syrax will follow you into battle, Overseer."  
Kark nodded. The young proto-Patriarch was eager to make up for the loss of his cell in Italy, for he saw it as a personal responsibility. The Overseer was a fair Balorian, after all, and would grant Syrax the chance to make up for it.  
"Syrax will command this mission, Xenothane. I must return to Cydonia to see to other matters."  
Almost as tall as the Overseer, the proto-Patriarch stood next to his parent. He was not as fearsome as Xenothane, for the stigma of his special destiny had yet to appear, but already Syrax was becoming more hunched than the normal Antiluvian warrior, and his limbs were beginning to mutate into deadlier scythe-like blades.  
Syrax dipped his hunched body as best as he could in a respectful bow. With no speech organs yet, he was confined to his mindlink for communication. Syrax thanks the Overseer Kark. He will not be disappointed.  
"Xenothane has confidence in you, Syrax. So have I."  
Kark also knew why Xenothane was so eager to have Syrax prove himself.  
Patriarchs, and Patriarchs alone, had the power to turn ordinary Antiluvian drones into other Patriarchs, and a common measure of success in Antiluvian Hives were how many such proto-Patriarchs were birthed by a parent and lived to propagate other, independent Hives.  
Therein lay the danger: patricide was not unknown in Antiluvian society, and sometimes, an ambitious proto-Patriarch would replace his parent as the focal point of the Hive.  
If Syrax was tempered in battle, Xenothane would be assured of his worthiness, and release him to begin his own Hive, effectively saving himself from a possible usurper. If he fell, though, it would prove that Syrax had been found wanting, and therefore deserved to die.  
All present were quite aware of what had been left unspoken: if Syrax lost his command but survived, he could never return. Xenothane would personally kill him for his 'incompetence'.  
There had been, of course, rogue Hives. The Tel' Istar made every effort to track these down and destroy them. Kark had directed two such purges personally before, and he knew that Xenothane had been involved in at least one Hive War previously.  
Snapping his heels together, Kark saluted the duo, then gestured for Syrax to board the troop carrier.  
"Then let us begin." 


	10. The Enemy Reaches Out

Once the inner workings of the plasma rifles had been decoded, it did not take long for Moira to piece together the single, huge plasma battery on the captured alien tank.

Based on the same principle as the plasma rifles, but built on a much larger scale, the plasma battery fired a coherent beam of superhot, ionized particles. It drew fuel from an Elerium reservoir to do this, despite requiring no actual hard ammunition. Calculations showed that the existing reservoir should power the battery for about eighty to a hundred shots, after which the exhausted Elerium core would need to be replaced.

Moira was excitedly discussing this with her colleagues in the cafeteria when Ivan passed by, his whole shoulder and chest aching from his broken clavicle.

"How can it even be possible! Plasma tends to dissociate after being projected for more than a meter ..."

"Yes, yes, I know, it is non-trivial to keep plasma focused properly ..."

"The secret is in the laser fields, and the muzzle shape ..."

"No, you _idiot_, it is the Elerium that helps the coherence of the beam ..."

"Still, up to a possible 82 kilometers away ..."

"Oh, yes, absolutely mind-boggling ..."

As the scientists argued, Ivan groaned and slid into a table; his head hurt enough, and there was no way somebody without a physics degree could follow the scientists' discussion. Drake and Monique were already there, eating what passed for food from aluminum trays. The ex-Delta Force soldier raised a spoonful of strange, unappetizing soup and eyed it suspiciously.

"This is supposed to be ... what?"

"Liquefied protein mass, bonded with carbohydrate, and mixed with a sucrose-lactose syrup for taste," the medic supplied. Ivan noted with mild disgust that she was spooning the stuff into her mouth with great relish.

"How can you eat that?" He winced.

"Tastes better than it looks," she returned. "Besides, I eat when I'm stressed."

That killed the conversation and Monique's appetite as they sat back and thought about the friends they had lost. Ivan still could not believe that Pieter was gone; they had been together since that little neighbourhood back in grimy Lubyanka. He could still recall the stink of urine in their favourite pissing spot in the alley, and the best Stroganoff in Russia from that café just next to the bakery.

"A toast, to comrades long gone," he intoned, and dipped a finger into Drake's protein soup and licked it.

"Yes," the man agreed. Then he looked at Ivan sourly. "You eat this, now. I'm not touching it after you put your dirty finger in it."

As Drake left to get another tray, Monique pushed away her own tray. "I need a beer. Not this filthy American nonsense they serve, but good, proper German beer. Maybe some Reissdorf Koelsch, or Altbier, maybe."

"_Da_. It is only proper to toast our friends with some good Russian vodka."

A shuffling noise made them all look up as Wolf lowered himself gingerly into a seat. As they half made to stand up in respect, the Colonel waved them all down and gently set down a small brown paper bag. Glass clinked softly.

"Sir, you should be in bed," Monique ventured.

"So they all say," Wolf grimaced as a twinge shot through his chest. "I'm sick of bed. All I need is to shoot some aliens, then I'll feel better."

As they all chuckled, he reached out and pulled three small bottles from the bag. Ivan and Monique stared in amazement as Wolf produced five shot glasses as well.

"Overheard what you said," the Colonel commented. "Been thinking about that myself."

He stood a small bottle of Stolichnaya vodka in front of Ivan and hefted the remaining two bottles in either hand.

"So, Monique, what will it be? Glenmorangie 18-year old single malt, or this nice Jose Cuervo tequila? Sorry, no beer."

As they continued staring at him, Wolf put the bottles down and sighed. "I'm a Colonel, remember? I have pull."

Drake returned then, and smiled delightedly at the liquor. "I say, Colonel, this is a sight for sore eyes!"

Without an invitation, he sat down and broke open the tequila.

"Ah," Drake sighed as the fiery liquid stung his tongue. "Nothing like tequila to settle an empty stomach."

"Yes," Wolf grinned. "As Robert would have said, 'let's get sloshed'."

  


That was where McNeilly found them much later on. The cafeteria had long closed, and Moira and her team had also returned to their quarters. Three empty liquor bottles were on the table, with one half-finished shot glass of whisky. Monique and Ivan were slumped in their chairs, and Drake was lying underneath the table, snoring like a freight train.

Only Wolf was half-conscious, and he was the one holding the unfinished drink.

Blearily, he looked up as Paul walked in. Two other soldiers were in tow, and they looked faintly amused at the sight of four X-Com veterans so smashed. Wolf motioned for them to seat themselves.

"Sorry, Paul, I would've saved some for you, but you boys got here late."

McNeilly had to smile. "Wolf, it's almost two in the morning. You should be in bed."

"No," the Colonel tossed back the last of the whisky. "I need a gun, so I can blow some aliens away to hell."

"You're drunk."

"What an astute observation. These kids must be our HWP drivers." Wolf glared at them through bloodshot eyes. "No, please don't salute."

"You've got more troopers, too." Paul picked up the empty bottles and handed them to one of the soldiers. "Please dispose of these, Dieter. The dustbin is over there." 

He eyed the sprawled troopers critically. "You really shouldn't be drinking. Especially you, Wolf."

The Colonel laughed. "They took me off the morphine. At least this way, it's halfway bearable. Besides, Team Rattler is on-shift; Team Shark - or what's left of it - still has another 36 hours off."

"Ideally," Paul noted. "We should keep you guys all off-duty for much longer than that."

"No," Wolf objected at once. "Fall off a horse, and you need to get back on it as soon as possible, before the fear sets in. Same thing with combat situations."

"That is just _so_ untrue! The human mind is far more delicate and needs to treated as such."

"We could go on debating, doctor, but I think Hans and Dieter over here are getting uncomfortable." Wolf stood unsteadily, bracing himself with a hand on a chair. "You came here for introductions, I presume. That's Drake under the table, and Ivan is over there. Monique is, obviously, the girl next to me. Welcome to X-Com."

The two troopers stood and saluted this time. Hans spoke. "It is a great honour, sir, to ..."

Wolf had to chuckle at that. "We'll see. X-Com has a fairly high attrition rate. Anyway, as Paul here has pointed out, it is now after two in the morning. If you fellows would help haul your buddies here back to their beds ..."

  


***

  


Similar to what Wolf and his friends were doing, Rasitler was enjoying some fine drinks with his friend. It had been a splendid evening, the sky darkening in brilliant hues of purples and greens, the twin suns setting in the east in an explosion of colour. Such a sight must be toasted, Draestin had proclaimed, and out had come the drink. No ordinary drink, too, but something called Pine Sol! Draestin had nudged Rasitler and confided that he had pulled it off the black market, a genuine Earth import, he had been assured.

It had been mighty fine, too. Rasitler savoured the sharp cut of it on his tongue as he knocked back a shot. Sastrian metabolism was far more robust than a mere human's; out here in the wild, the fifty-five degree Celsius heat would have baked most humans, but was like a comfortable blanket around his shoulders. The Pine Sol had no effect other than to make Rasitler burp.

What a great vacation! The Sastrian thought. It had been hellish going for the past few months. His boss had wanted that new quantum gravitronic multi-sensor installed on a _Trank_-class civilian transport, turning it into a very expensive prototype mobile command centre. Despite the best company analysts arguing that it would be prohibitive to power the vehicle like that, the boss, being the boss, had gotten exactly what he wanted.

It had taken four months of back-breaking work with nine other engineers, including Draestin. While Rasitler oversaw the transport of the multi-sensor to the company workshops, Draestin was busy reworking the interior of the _Trank_-class to accept the machinery. And that had only been the beginning.

Once in place, the engineers had found that the multi-sensor would not plug into any of the standard power fittings onboard the ship. More retooling followed, and eventually they had managed to roughly jam the multi-sensor in place. The configuration consoles had then been broken out, only to be discovered that the multi-sensor required an advanced operating system to interface with the consoles.

Rather than blow a huge hole in the company pockets again, they had lobbied three of the more hardworking company programmers to hack the software, instead. The rudimentary interface worked well enough at the end of a week, and the prototype was ready for testing.

Miraculously, the entire apparatus powered up and went live the very first time they flipped the switch. The boss was so happy, he had given the entire engineering team a whole week off. Rasitler and Draestin had booked the first flight out.

"You know," Draestin mused aloud. "I'm getting really sick of working for that idiot."

Rasitler knew exactly what he was going on about. "So am I. But our area of expertise is so specialized, what new jobs are there?"

Sastrians were highly prized as ship engineers; their serpentine physiology let them move rapidly through the cramped maintenance tunnels. Ark Instruments, Inc., paid very well for Sastrian engineers, but pay was never enough compensation for having to put up with a meathead like their current boss.

"Well, there's always the military, and military-related companies. I hear Allied Starflights, Inc., is hiring. What with the Earth War, maybe we could get postings as ship engineers."

He thought about it for a moment. "Isn't that a bit dangerous?"

Draestin laughed until he choked. "That's funny! Seriously, do you think that the Earthlings would be able to dent a _Starfire_-class battlecruiser?"

"I'm sure that the Council isn't telling us everything. And all these Guardian-purges, what is it with them?"

"Well, Lord Overseer Orvax says that the Guardians are traitors, and they are - they've been leaking our technology to the Earthlings for years and years."

"That doesn't mean that they're traitors! Isn't it our sovereign duty to help those races lesser than us?"

"Of course not! They can crawl right along with evolution. We did, after all. Why should they be any different?"

Rasitler was about to reply when his mindlink came active. The alarm going off in his head was loud enough to make him wince in pain.

_All citizens, this is a Level-1 alert. Return to your homes immediately. Flights are being arranged for your evacuation. This is not a drill, repeat, this is NOT a drill._

"What's going on?" Draestin looked at him.

Rasitler shrugged. "Better do as we're told. They don't sound a Level-1 alert for no reason."

  


High above them, Shurak wrenched his controls sharply to the right, narrowly avoiding a blast of fire from the enemy. His wingman was not so lucky, and the hail of energized crystal shards smashed into the light scout ship. A scream echoed through the mindlink, abruptly cut short as a second volley blew the ship apart.

Where the hell had they come from? And just what the hell _were_ they?

It had always been a quiet patrol route, with only the occasional trouble with minor undesirables. Today had started off mildly, with Shurak and his flight chasing off a pair of pirates. Then everything had gone pear-shaped with astounding quickness, as a warp vortex opened up right in the pirates' path. As the fleeing brigands were ripped apart by the spiraling vortex, nine strange, crystalline barbed ships had come through.

There were no wasted words, and the intruders had made their intention known right from the start with a salvo that tore into the patrol. Despite being in combat mode already, the patrol ships had lost fully half their number in the opening minutes of the battle.

Flight Commander Shurak had hastily dispatched alert messages to Flight Command on the planet surface, and Fleet Command at the heart of _Tel' Istar_ space, beaming back transmissions of the attacking ships and the initial analysis of their weapon systems.

The disturbing silhouettes of the intruders kept pulling at Shurak's memory. They were vaguely familiar, and his mind wandered back to the messages from Fleet Command about two months ago.

What did it say, now?

_Watch out for extraterrestrial intruders of unknown origin._

These trespassers certainly qualified. A pair of the enemy broke off from the main flight and headed for the planet surface. Shurak tried to intercept, but the resistance was far too heavy, and he was forced back into the fray.

Dodging another pair of lightning bolts, Shurak answered with a blast from his own plasma cannons. Brilliant emerald energy lanced across the endless night.

  


Minutes later, Draestin watched in horror as the strange, barbed craft set down on the plains. An avid student of history, the image tugged at his mind ...

"Oh, no," he whispered as memory finally served him. His mind numb, Draestin clutched at his friend. "It's a _Devourer_ ship!"

Rasitler spat, refusing to believe that. He pried Draestin's fingers loose. "That's nonsense! We crushed the Devourers the last time round!"

"Tell that to them," Draestin nodded towards the Devourer ship. As they sped past, Rasitler watched it disgorge a payload of warriors. Sleek and deadly and eerily beautiful, they hefted crystal-tipped staffs and cut loose.

  


With no interest in ancient history, Shurak had to rely on the communications console to tell him what enemies he faced. When the equipment came back with possible ship profile matches, he nearly voided his bowels there and then.

_Retrieved profile match: Classified Shard-class Devourer Light Destroyer._  
_Retrieved profile match: Classified Crysalith-class Devourer Troop Transport._

As he pulled up from a controlled spin, Shurak tried desperately to remember what little he remembered of the Ancient Foe from his training. One of the obvious weapons were the psychokinetic crystals grown from the hull of each enemy vessel, which caused damage through a combination of impact, fragmentation shrapnel, and a massive electrical jolt.

But this was a _recreation_ planet! What in the name of Creation could the Ancient Foe possibly want with _that_?

Far too young to remember the First Devourer War, Shurak armed his fusion torpedoes and sent them streaking towards an enemy ship. By now, he knew that the enemy troops would have already landed.

Shurak prayed desperately for his fellow citizens facing the foe below on the planet surface.

  


When his snout was not buried in history books, Draestin also spent a considerable amount of his spare time at the speeder race tracks. Partly because he was Sastrian, but mostly due to his own talent, Draestin had an affinity for equipment traveling at high speeds and making dangerously sharp turns. In the eight years since he had started racing competitively, Draestin had won a couple of trophies, and had become a respected member of the amateur racing scene.

All that hard-learnt skill came in handy now as Draestin wretched the control stick back and forth, slipping sideways between exploding lightning bolts as they fled for their lives.

  


As an enemy ship detonated underneath the combined plasma fire of four interceptors, barbed crystalline protrusions on one of its fellows suddenly blazed with a dazzling silvery-white fire. Another memory came to life as Shurak watched: those same psychokinetic crystals could be charged with furious electrical power, forming a huge lightning gun.

_The Earthlings call that a Tesla Gun._ Shurak could not understand why that bit of trivia had suddenly popped into his head.

Whatever it was called, the discharge seared into one of his ships, cutting it clean in half, and spilling its crew into the cold vacuum of space.

That was twenty-fives centimeters of the latest armour alloy! Shurak thought in dismay. How do we fight _that_ ... ?!

Screaming for vengeance, Shurak turned and charged the foe as his men died around him.

  


Dazzling detonations threw up gouts of red soil around the accelerating speeder. Draestin drove like a mad serpent, while Rasitler could only hang on for dear life.

But racing was nothing like driving in a combat situation, and although Draestin was prodigiously gifted, he had never been caught in a real fight for his life before. In a near-panic, Draestin zigged when he should have zagged ...

... and one bolt struck the propulsion system, ripping apart the entire engine array. Even as the Elerium core exploded spectacularly, three more bolts hit the cabin, and two more shredded the hull of the speeder.

  


Shurak turned at the last moment, blazing plasma fire down at the Devourer enemy. The beams left angry, black streaks on the crystalline surface.

But he had misjudged the range of the Devourer weapons, and was struck by a volley of crystal shards and artificial lightning.

As his craft disintegrated around him, Shurak was simultaneously cut into ribbons and electrocuted. He had no idea that he was one of the lucky ones, to have died so cleanly.

  


Draestin had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but judging from the flaming hulk of the speeder, it had not been that long. He must have been thrown clear when the speeder crashed. Rasitler was nowhere to be seen.

Groaning, he heaved himself on his tail. He had been cut in many places, and a sharp, digging pain in his lower back told him something vital had been punctured. Barely able to breathe, Draestin dragged himself onwards with his hands, fueled by sheer stubbornness.

A silhouette up ahead! He was saved!

It was Rasitler.

But it was not Rasitler.

Draestin screamed as his friend advanced.

  


Several hours later, the Devourer ships departed, their mission accomplished.

And behind them, the planet burned.

  



	11. Quiet Time

It was another practice session.

The X-Com combat teams had to learn to integrate their tactics with the new Heavy Weapons Platforms. Unfortunately, even with the Chinook helicopter holding bays cleared out, Base Avalon simply did not have enough space for such training purposes. Instead, everything had to be shifted up to the island surface.

Unable to participate, Ivan and Wolf were relegated to spectators. However, this was easier than ever, with the integration of some parts of the newly-understood alien technology. Presently, they were seated before a bank of liquid crystal displays. A pair of monitors were linked to each of the two HWPs, providing a real-time update of the critical internal systems of each machine, as well as a camera view. For this mock battle, one HWP had been fitted with a G.E. Minigun, and the other mounted an 8-shot Mistral antitank rocket launcher. 

Micro-circuitry embedded in every suit of X-Com armour monitored the heart rate of each soldier, linked to a tiny radio transmitter independent of the combat communications net. Operating in the HF frequency range, its function was two-fold: it would show the status of every soldier, and would also provide a remote commander with the location of every soldier at any given time. This tactical data showed up on another set of monitors as a truncated ECG graph next to a name. 

To prevent this from being used by the enemy, complex software hardwired into the transmission unit forced a frequency hop in the HF band every few seconds. A direct result of this was that each suit of armour had to be kept prepped with information on a pre-selected band of hops, so that armour and base command could be kept in sync. Three tiny 9-volt lithium cells provided power enough for the entire transmission array, and an operational lifetime measured in months.

Programmed into a powerful set of 16 computers linked in a Beowulf cluster was a virtual layout of the island surface. On a special 2 meter wide plasma TV screen, this was shown from a bird's eye perspective, accurate down to the last tree, bush, and rock. Each soldier's radio signal was marked by a flashing, coloured light - cyan for Team Shark, crimson for Team Rattler. Above each light was the soldier's name.

This was completely appropriate, as in this mission, Team Shark was playing X-Com, and Team Rattler was playing the aliens. 

As they watched, the marker standing for Drake moved a few meters to his right, then quickly moved back left again as Team Rattler's HWP caught sight of him. Dieter was piloting that monster, and a quick trigger finger sent 'bullets' flying at his target. The ammunition counter on the G.E. Minigun dropped at an unbelievable rate; it was capable of discharging 6000 bullets a _second_, after all. 

Dieter panned the volley around where he thought Drake was hiding for a while. The HWP driver quickly realized that his ammunition was being depleted too quickly, though, and he eased off the trigger. 

But it had been enough.

The MILES training system was like a high-tech version of paintball, using low-powered lasers. Each weapon was mounted with a laser projector, and each soldier wore a laser receiver. Whenever a laser hit a receiver, that counted as a hit. 

Drake's receiver calculated that he had been hit by the Minigun numerous times, enough to have cut him into little bite-sized pieces if they had been real bullets. It sent a signal back to base, where the control console in front of Wolf beeped urgently.

The marker denoting Drake on the plasma screen flashed once, brightly, then turned dark gray. A moment later, the comm-net came to life.

"Man down, man down," came Drake's disappointed voice. "Damned."

  


Up on the island surface, Dieter heard Drake's announcement and crowed. First kill to him! Twitching his finger on the control joystick, he inched the HWP forward as Ishiyama and Ricardo advanced on either side of the machine.

To control the HWP, Dieter had had to sacrifice much of his personal combat ability. The actual control unit was strapped to his back, weighing in at a hefty 12 kilos. A band of wires trailed out from its left side, linking to a small gamepad-like device that took up all the space on his left forearm. Holding the arm awkwardly in front of his chest, Dieter manipulated the HWP with a joystick that popped up from the electronic bracer. 

To help guide the HWP, Dieter wore a half-headset. This was a small, rectangular box attached to a headband. The device contained a miniature TV screen inside, which showed the HWP's sighting perspective, and also had a drop-down communications mike. This was supposed to let Dieter keep his peripheral vision on the left, and let him concentrate on the HWP control at the same time.

The reality was very different: the split vision was extremely confusing, and Dieter found himself closing his left eye to give all his attention to moving the HWP. Worse, the headset was heavy, and he could already feel his neck muscles complaining. 

With so much weight and with his attention so divided, Dieter was meant to be kept out of actual combat. To that effect, he only had a 9mm Browning Hi-Power pistol in a hip holster.

Flexing his cramped fingers and ignoring his hurting neck, Dieter went hunting for another target.

  


Back in the Control and Command Centre, Wolf noted with satisfaction that Team Shark was putting up a good fight despite having lost their squad automatic weapon. Ishiyama had chosen to split up Team Rattler into three sub-sections, personally advancing with his HWP from the front, and trying to bracket Team Shark from either side. 

Currently in-charge of Team Shark, Monique had clearly anticipated this. She had hunkered down with her team in a small ditch, waiting to ambush one of Team Rattler's flankers. Drake had gone out with another trooper to scout, and while he been taken out, Lance-Corporal Andrea Lee had brought back valuable information.

Ishiyama seemed to have forgotten that Team Shark also had a HWP. Led by Leo and two others, the left flank suddenly vanished as Monique's powered-down HWP suddenly came back to life and blazed two rockets into their midst. 

As a chorus of 'man downs' echoed through the comm-net, Ishiyama turned two LAWs on the enemy HWP. It turned that he had just been waiting for Monique to show her hand, and the computer painted the HWP deader than dead.

In return, Monique charged Ishiyama. A furious firefight ensued, with Dieter losing his cool and randomly hosing down the terrain. As his ammo counter clicked empty, he happily dropped the expensive transmission equipment to the soil, pulled out his pistol, and went charging head-long into the fray.

Enthusiastic, Wolf had to admit. And he got quite good results, too.

Stuffed in the back of battle, no-one had quite remembered that Dieter had been armed, too. He managed to sneak into the back of Team Shark, and had 'shot' two members before Hans got the same idea and went hunting with his own pistol.

"Exercise cut," Wolf barked into the mike. "Repeat, exercise cut. That's enough, boys and girls."

The acknowledgements filtered in, and the teams broke up and started returning.

"Not bad," Ivan remarked, looking at the score. Team Rattler had won by a slim margin, with four members 'dead', and two more damaged.

"Yes," Wolf agreed. "I expected Team Rattler to win by a bigger margin, but Monique has distinguished herself this time."

"_Da_. I think we should buy her a drink."

"Or maybe an extra helping of the cafeteria protein slop. She seems to like it."

They chuckled at that, and went to meet the teams for debriefing.  


Some time later, after stowing away the bulk of their equipment, the X-Com combat teams broke for some lunch. The XCRs were so well-built, the new recruits had taken to them like fish to water.

"We will begin fielding plasma guns from the next mission onwards," Wolf told them. "There are only four plasma weapons, so each team will take two. Moira assures me that we have enough ammunition packed away, but do not get carried away - depending on the situation, collateral damage can become a very big, and very expensive, factor."

"Meaning, do not shoot anything that you absolutely do not have to," Hans wisecracked to one of his fellow team members, a French woman named Sandrine Veurill. 

"I understand English, _monsieur_." She spared him a wry smile. Her French accent put a pleasing, exotic lilt to every word she spoke.

"And I speak French," he said proudly. "_Voulez vous coucher avec moi, ce soir_?"

Sandrine rolled her eyes. "Please, that is very bad French. And you heard it off that _merde_ song, _non_? Anyway, I do not think you should use a plasma gun."

"Why not?" Hans was just slightly pricked.

As they filed away to respective tables after getting their meal allocation, Sandrine grinned and told him. "Dieter told me why. During the exercise, you fired off an entire magazine - and missed him."

"Yeah, well," Hans squirmed uncomfortably. "It was ... you know, hectic, and I ..."

"You were shooting at Dieter from behind," she interrupted. "From about seven meters away. I checked the combat recordings - your hit rate was about 10%."

"What can I say to that?" Hans shrugged helplessly. "To be perfectly honest, I hate guns."

"You _what_?"

"I hate guns. In fact, I'm terrified of them. When I was nine, I saw one of my friends die in a robbery."

"_Merde_. I am sorry, Hans. I did not know." Sandrine reached out and put a hand on his arm, as Hans stared off into space, looking at something only he could see.

"It was at that candy store, right off Main Street. The guy came in with a shotgun, demanded the shopkeeper open his cash register. Me and Angie, we ran and tried to hide in an aisle. The guy saw the movement, didn't think, didn't blink, just opened fire. 

"Jesus, I remember seeing Angie lying on the floor. Her whole chest was gone, just one big, bloody hole and shreds of flesh holding her arms and legs and head. She was only seven, Sandrine. That creep was high on drugs or something and just shot her."

Shaking himself, Hans stuck a spoon in his protein mix and stirred it around aimlessly. "I joined the military out of ... what, I don't really know, some sense that somehow I could prevent something like that from happening again.

"But you know what? It didn't work out. I was so scared of handling the M-16s in basic training, my officers nearly booted me out. Eventually, I scraped through, and straightaway got transferred to a desk job. 

"Then this X-Com thing came through. I heard about all the new technology they had to play with, and I just had to come and see; call me a geek, but it's true." Hans chuckled self-deprecatingly. "Thing is, I really would have been much happier getting assigned to X-Com as a techie, instead of a combat trooper. But this was the only opening available, so I took it anyway. Just so I could see and play with the new toys."

He lifted a spoonful of soup to his mouth, sampled it, and was pleasantly surprised. "That's really quite nice. Sort of sweet corn, chicken-y flavour."

"You have not spoken to Wolf, to get a transfer, say, to Materials? A special consideration just for you?" Sandrine ventured tentatively. 

"Yes, but I was refused. I'm the only one who went through that HWP driving course, other than Dieter, so that makes the two of us the only qualified operators around. I'm stuck in this role for at least 3 months, since that's the absolute shortest that they can bring in another HWP driver."

Hans spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "Of course, I could always get out of this outfit, but that would mean I'd have no more new toys to fool around with."

Sandrine sighed inwardly. She had no idea how to help Hans, really. She was a soldier, not a counselor. "I do not know what to say, Hans. Maybe we should change the subject?"

"OK. What would you like to know?"

"What did you do before the military?"

"I did four years at the Rochester Institute of Technology, way up in New York. Then I went to Berkley, California, and got my doctorate in robotics. Joined the military after that."

Sandrine stared at him. "You are a _doctor_?"

"Of philosophy." Hans smiled. "Surprised?"

"_Tres bien_. Your degree is wasted in the army, _non_?"

"Sort of. After basic training, I got shipped all over the shop. Seems like the U.S. Army never has enough chief clerks to go around. I've done mostly logistics co-ordination, and they try and certify us once a year on the M-16. I just make it most days."

"Your parents must have been furious."

Hans laughed. "They've never been able to stop me! Anyway, the pay here is quite good, and my dad thinks I'm still in Fort Bragg or somewhere, with some nice pips on my shoulder."

They ate in silence for a while, listening to the rest of the troopers bandy around. Finishing his protein mix, Hans frowned and looked around.

"Is this it? Only soup?"

Sandrine looked up from her own mix. "_Oui_. This is the only thing the cafeteria serves. You can get beer when you are off-duty and only between eight and ten in the evenings. And this is not soup; it is a specially designed protein/carbohydrate mix to guarantee the proper daily calorie intake. Didn't you read the briefing manual on the way here?"

"No," Hans admitted. "I could do with some fibre, though. Some lettuce or spinach would be nice. This protein mix is not bad, but I'm still hungry."

Monique passed by just then, and overheard. "You will get used to it. In the meantime, go to the cook and tell him Monique sent you, and recommends some emergency rations just to help you get used to the situation."

She winked and left.

"Monique? She is one of the original team members, _oui_?" Sandrine observed.

"Don't care about that! If she can get me some extra food, I'd quite happily let her shave my head, wax my eyebrows, and use me for a surfboard." Hans left to see the cook, and came after a short while. He held up a couple of packets of Meals-Ready-To-Eat; the MREs were labeled bangers and mash.

"Already heated up," Hans reported happily. "Seems that some of our British friends brought over their MREs during assignment."

It was a well-known fact that British MREs were far more edible than their American counterparts. Even Sandrine had to grin and acknowledge that. She batted her eyelashes seductively at Hans. "Well, then, _Monsieur_ Hans, why do you wait? Must I give you an invitation to dinner?"

They laughed as they broke open the MREs and tore into them enthusiastically, much to the envy of some of the watching soldiers. Nearby, one of the new soldiers, another French man by the name of Louis Marcelle, was showing off his manual dexterity to a couple of pals. 

Louis had stood up, and jammed a pair of spoons into his pockets. With breathtaking speed, he whipped them out simultaneously, spun them around his fingers and pointed them at an imaginary alien. He twirled the spoons around his fingers again, then put them back neatly in his pockets, to the sound of applause from his audience.

"That was quite amazing," Hans commented. "Do you know the guy?"

"_Non_." Sandrine shook her head. "Louis is DGSE - Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, the French Secret Service. I do not like him."

"Why not? Seems like a nice guy."

"He feels ... wrong. Like, he smiles, but his eyes never smile."

Hans thought about that. It did not make any sense to him, but everybody was entitled to their own opinions. "Whatever you say."

Sandrine frowned. "I cannot explain it, Hans. Louis is ... a very dangerous man, not just to his enemies, but also to his friends. There are many rumours about Louis."

"Alright, alright, keep your hat on. Now you know a bit about me, what about you?"

"_Moi_? I joined the French military to help my family. The Veurill family is not rich, we live in a small village in Normandy. My father is a butcher, and my mother teaches at the village school. My parents have five children, including me, so we all work to help."

"What were you doing in the army then?"

"I used to do work like Monique. Medical work. I went on duty in Kosovo, as a combat medic. It was very strange, to shoot at people and try to kill them, then take out your medical equipment afterwards and try and save those that have just tried to killed you."

"I can imagine!"

"Anyway, after Kosovo, my father objected and said things were too dangerous for a woman. So, I got a transfer back to France, and worked as a border guard - you know, walking the trains to check passports."

She blew her hair out of her eyes. "It was very boring. Mostly tourists. Only once, somebody tried to sneak into France, illegal immigrant from ... Romania, or maybe Hungary, I think. We found him hiding in the train toilet. He took a pipe and tried to attack my patrol, so I hit him with my gun. He got up, tried again, and would not stop even when we shouted at him. I got tired of it, so I shot him."

Hans dropped his spoon. "You shot him?"

"_Oui_." Sandrine shrugged. "In the legs."

"In the legs?"

Frowning at him, she nodded. "_Oui_, in the legs. What are you, a parrot?"

"What did your officers say?"

"Nothing. He was clearly aggressive, so I had to keep him down."

"By shooting him."

"_Mais bien sur_! By shooting him. In the legs," she added, looking thoughtful. "Only two months in hospital."

"_Jesus Christ_!" Hans could not believe what he was hearing.

"What is wrong?"

"You _shot_ somebody! You ... a girl, shot somebody!"

Sandrine's mouth formed a grim line. "It was a job, Hans. Girl or not, it was my job, so I had to do it."

"Whatever happened to girls and sugar and spice and everything nice?"

"Not me." Sandrine resumed eating, and the conversation died off.

  


***

  


"So can you do it?"

"I don't know," Sadatoshi Gassan admitted. The clean-shaven, middle-aged Japanese man frowned and rubbed his hands over his chin.

He eyed the opened package before him. Within it lay a hilt of the purest ivory, carved to resemble an oriental dragon. Next to it were two bars of a silvery metal he had never seen before, each fully a meter in length. Most curious of all, next to these items was a tiny lump of ... something, that glowed a fiery orange, visible even in the bright afternoon sun in Nara Prefecture, Japan.

The hilt was intimately familiar, but Sadatoshi ignored it for now. He picked up the metal, and examined it. He noted its strength and resilience, and the eerie smoothness of its surface. Flawless in every sense of the word, and quite the lightest he had ever held.

Setting the metal aside, Sadatoshi picked up the hilt. He held it up to the light, marveling at how life-like the carving of the dragon was. At the right angle, it seemed ready to leap off the hilt and sink its vicious fangs into flesh, its eyes aglow with superhuman intelligence and menace.

"This is ... quite amazing." Sadatoshi remarked. "I think that, perhaps, I have seen it before ..."

"You should have." The black man replied. "It was one of the originals made by your ancestor, Gassan Sadakazu, back in the early 1900s."

Sadatoshi's eyes lit up. "Ah, yes! I remember! My father showed me pictures of it. It was one of the very first katanas made for the Imperial Household ... but how did you get hold of it?"

"That is not important. My client paid a great price for the weapon."

"I would imagine so! Such a katana would now fetch over ten million yen - over 80,000 U.S. dollars."

"That much?"

"Oh, yes. Kenichi Inami, of the Tokyo dealership Japan Sword, has a 13th century sword, worth over 35 million yen."

"That is, what, about 300,000 dollars?"

"It is a priceless treasure. A national treasure."

"I'm sure. But what about this piece? Can you do it?"

Sadatoshi frowned. "It would be a great honour to work with a blade that the master Gassan Sadakazu himself worked on so long ago, but although this metal will definitely hold the edge, the other modifications you want are very complex, very difficult."

"My client trusts only your work. He said that you were the only one qualified to work on it."

Sadatoshi waved away the praise. "There are about 80 smiths today, in Japan, who make swords the traditional way, like me. I am not unique."

"But you are the very best."

The Japanese man scratched his forehead without answering. He turned a sharp gaze on the man before him. Dressed in a black business suit - never mind the humid heat of the Japanese summer in Osaka - he spoke with a very strong American accent. His face was lean and strong-jawed, and there was no hint of weakness in his eyes.

Sadatoshi shivered. A killer's face, if there ever was one.

In turn, the man stared unflinchingly at Sadatoshi, daring him to look away first.

Sadatoshi Gassan was not a weak man. He came from a lineage that went back for more than 800 years, to the Kamakura period, when Buddhist monks in the ascetic Shugendo sect needed swords to protect their disciples on holy mountains, such as the eponymous Mount Gassan, one of the three Dewa Sanzan peaks in present-day Yamagata Prefecture, northern Japan.

It was a strong and honourable bloodline, for Sadatoshi's late father, Sadaichi Gassan, had been named a Living National Treasure in Japan, for his prowess in the ancient arts of swordmaking. It was a precious knowledge handed down from generation to generation, as Sadatoshi had learned from his father, so, too, had Sadaichi learnt it from his father before him.

Sadatoshi was of the fifth generation of swordmakers from the Gassan school, ever since it had relocated to Osaka in 1830. Although he dearly wished to be named a Living National Treasure like his father, Sadatoshi was, admittedly, far more interested in making outstanding blades that would last centuries. The Japanese sword was a marvelous heritage that was part of the true spirit of the Japanese people, and for many, to be part of such a legacy was to partake of immortality.

But this man ... he frightened Sadatoshi like no other.

Trying to conceal involuntary shudders, Sadatoshi turned away to examine the materials before him again. He could not help noticing that the black man smiled as he did so - it was not a pleasant sight, and if it was at all possible, his blood froze even harder.

"My client will pay you one million U.S. dollars."

Sadatoshi had to raise an eyebrow. "That is a lot of money. Far above the actual value of the sword itself."

The man shrugged. "That is amount I was ordered to quote for your work."

The money was good incentive, certainly, but as far as Sadatoshi was concerned, the decision had already been made. Any swordsmith would have killed to work on one of the original Imperial Gassan blades, and if he managed to equal - or even surpass! - his ancestor's immaculate work ...

The prestige that would win him would be incalculable.

"Very well. I will do it."

"You understand that there is a non-disclosure agreement to be signed when you undertake this project?"

Sadatoshi was insulted. "Sir, commissioned pieces are usually collectors who are very particular about their privacy. Even without the confidentiality order, neither I nor my apprentices would reveal any names."

The man held his hands up in a placating gesture. "Just getting the paperwork out of the way, Sadatoshi-_san_. It's part of my job. I meant no disrespect. If any offense was taken, please accept my apologies. 

"How long will it take?"

"In Sakurai, here in Nara Prefecture, I have five apprentices at the smithy." Sadatoshi ran through the figures in his head, factoring in the commitments he already had. "I would say, about 15 months?"

The black man did not even blink. "Too slow."

"What can I say? I have other commitments, too. And to make this sword the old way, the traditional way, and add in all your modifications ..."

Eyes gleaming, the man leaned forward. "Drop all your other commitments, Sadatoshi-_san_. If you finish this assignment within three months, my client has authorized me to pay you five times that amount."

Sadatoshi rocked back on his heels. There were no words to say. 

"I'll be back in three months then, with your five million dollars." Dennis Drakemore grinned. "A pleasure doing business with you."

  



	12. The Journey To Earth

Two days after Kalvar had gotten away, Orvax had begun to change _Tel' Istar_ society forever.

Military forces were marshalling all across the empire. Regular units stepped up their alert status, and reservist units were called up and issued weapons. The _Tel' Istar_ Imperial Navy began clustering their ships around the various Jumpgates leading into and out of the heart of _Tel' Istar_ space. Martial law was declared across fully fifty-eight planets in the Core, and conscripts were rapidly drafted into the army, sometime forcefully.

Behind all this, the civilian sector worked as support staff. Medical personnel were concentrated in hospitals, and tons of medical equipment were kept in reserve for the expected onslaught of casualties. Engineers checked and re-checked critical planetary infrastructures, from water reservoirs to planet-core geothermal power plants. Resources were re-directed to military purposes.

And in these two days, Guardians all across the Core were declared Outcasts, traitors guilty of high treason against the _Tel' Istar_. Special squads of soldiers, called Justicators, were formed for the explicit purpose of hunting down the Guardians and seeing to their elimination. 

All the while, the Ancient Foe cut ever deeper into _Tel' Istar_ territories.

The entire Border disintegrated in these two days, twenty-four planets in the Northeast Galactic Sector. Devourer units hit hard and fast, co-ordinating deep surgical strikes with astounding precision despite not using mapped Jumpgates. Scarcely had one planet issued an alert on the Holonet, when the enemy began laying waste to others. The 'Net flooded with panicked reports and commands, and the _Tel' Istar_ Navy lost no time in mustering a response.

A small fleet of battlecruisers, warships, and destroyers was dispatched to the Border within two hours of the first confirmed alert. They emerged near the site of a pitched battle, next to the planet Cruthsis, and immediately went into action. 

As the 12th Cruthsis Homeguard was being pounded into oblivion by a quintet of Devourer heavy cruisers, the _Starfire_-class battlecruiser _Clarion Call_ bore down from behind the foe. Unleashing its fighters and bombers, the battlecruiser blew apart one enemy ship with a full spread of fusion torpedoes. 

Watching the crippled craft vent atmosphere from its ruptured hull, the task force commander sent a trio of _Nova_-class destroyers racing in at another Devourer ship. They nipped and harried its heels, but to no avail; the enemy cruiser was simply too massive, and far too well-armed. A withering barrage destroyed two ships outright, and the last destroyer limped away, half its port side torn asunder.

The other battlecruiser, the _Naravath_, traded blows with two of the enemy heavy cruisers. Its fighter complement stabbed away at the Devourer ships, tiny fleas with terrible bites. Unfortunately, an error in judgment from the captain of the _Naravath_ left the battlecruiser well and truly flanked, and combined broadsides from the enemy ships turned the Naravath into a burning hulk. Stresses ripped the doomed battlecruiser into small pieces as she fell into the gravity well of the nearby planet.

The _Naravath_ had exacted a heavy price for her death, though, and sustained bombardment from the _Tel' Istar_ warships destroyed one of the foes who had felled the _Naravath_. The other one vanished in a blaze of brilliant emerald fire as the _Clarion Call_ got close enough to use her plasma cannons.

Even with three of the enemy eliminated, it took another forty-five minutes of heavy fighting to drive the last two Devourer ships away. At the end of it all, in addition to the losses already sustained, the _Tel' Istar_ task force had lost its remaining destroyer complement, one more battleship, and a good majority of its aerofighters.

With a ground war raging on the surface of the planet, the task force commander was unable to pursue. Instead, he landed troops to reinforce the planetary garrison, then shifted his remaining ships into geostationary orbits where the fighting was thickest. Orbital bombardment quickly pounded the bulk of the enemy into dust, and the ground forces swept in to clean up.

With one planet secure, the task force commander considered heading out to help planets under attack. But with the entire Border literally collapsing around him, the commander knew that he really only had one option.

The task force took on as many survivors as it possibly could, cramming soldiers and civilians into the unlikeliest nooks and crannies in every ship. It hardly made a dent in the total population of the planet, and many were left behind, crying and pleading for help that he could never give. It was a heartbreaking sight, and he turned away, hating himself for having to leave so many behind to face their deaths.

The evacuation took fully six hours, by which time the enemy had called in their own reinforcements and began mounting sorties against the task force. As the remaining four warships fought a valiant rearguard action, the commander had his lighter ships speed away first. The _Clarion Call_ then laid down a barrage of distracting fire, enough for the rearguard to disengage. Even so, he lost another warship to the enemy.

The battered task force managed to escape into hyperspace, emerging near the Ulistanian Jumpgate, where it took a direct route back into the Core. Hailed as heroes for their courageous actions, the task force was relieved of its load of refugees, and the battle recordings taken away for analysis.

The task force commander was found in his quarters three hours later, his head gone and a plasma pistol in one hand, a note in the other. The note said that he had been unable to live with himself for condemning an entire planet to certain death at the hands of the Ancient Foe.

Scarcely had the Border fallen when word came from the Northeast Galactic Sector. The Ancient Foe had begun its harvest of the Border planets, and once again, the _Tel' Istar_ knew the fear of the First Devourer War.

***

  


Somewhere in the Aryakka System, a small scout vessel drifted in space. The majority of its systems powered down to lessen the chance of detection, Tynovir nonetheless kept the weapon systems on-line. Admittedly, this was only a psychological comfort; this was one of the older designs, the X-shaped _Starflight_-class scout ship, with a plasma cannon at each of its apexes. That meant that at any one time, only a single battery could be brought to bear - doing little more than tickling any enemies. 

Tynovir knew. They had already had occasion to use it. It would not be long before the weapon's Elerium battery ran dry, and with no replacements on hand, they would be completely defenseless. 

Small wonder the _Starflight_-class ships were rapidly being replaced by the newer _Sunrider_-class vessels. Smaller, and therefore requiring less crew to man, and more energy efficient, a _Sunrider_-class advanced scout ship also featured a single omni-directional plasma beamer more commonly found on larger ships. It was also slightly slower, and had less range, but its profile was also more compact and stealthy, making it ideal for slipping in un-noticed behind enemy lines. 

The huge Balorian had more or less recovered from the beating he had taken during their escape. The throat wound still itched, and although he could speak now, his former booming, commanding voice was gone; all he had left was a sinister hiss. Tynovir remembered seeing a movie from Earth not too long ago; as the personal aide to a councilor, it was easy for him to get such imported goods. It was called _The Two Towers_, and it had a character in it that had a rough approximation to his current voice. 

Tynovir tried it out. "My precious."

There. It was sibilant and suitably ominous.

"My precious," he hissed again. This time it was more forceful, and he was pleased. "Yes, yes, my precious ..."

"Excuse me?"

Tynovir would have died of mortification if he could have. Fortunately, his altered physiology prevented him from blushing, and the Balorian turned to face Kalvar.

"Councilor," he said politely.

Kalvar held up a weary hand. "Please, no more titles. I am no more a councilor. We are refugees now, on the run from the very people we are trying to save."

It hurt Tynovir to see Kalvar so despondent. He gestured towards the navigation panel. "We should be nearing the Aryakka Jumpgate soon. After that, total travel time is only about thirty-six hours - thirty-four hours to enter the Solar System proper, and then a short, intra-galactic hyperspace jump."

The Jumpgate system was the equivalent of an intergalactic highway. While any ship could accelerate to the speed of light and beyond, the amount of power required to bend the laws of physics was tremendous; even a battlecruiser could maintain full speed for only three hours, at most. The larger the mass, the more punishing the energy requirements needed to push it past light speed.

Built around naturally occurring streams of fast-moving particulate 'winds', a Jumpgate was essentially a huge catapult at one end and a huge braking net at the other. These streams depended on the movement of particles ejected by stars, and tended to be very stable, extending to fixed spatial positions for hundreds - sometimes even thousands - of light years and staying that way for hundreds of years. A ship entered a Jumpgate with its terminus automatically downloaded into its navigation core; navigation algorithms then calculated the proper enter and exit velocities and vectors, and the ship was off. In the days before such complex equipment made Jumpgate safe, ships entering or leaving at the wrong velocity and vector typically tore themselves apart in an orgasm of shredded metal. 

Best of all, a Jumpgate - and its particulate stream - was usually large enough to accommodate three battlecruisers traveling side-by-side. It was truly a mass rapid transit system, for all shapes and sizes.

Following the events of their hasty departure from the Core, Byrak had plotted the shortest route to Earth. It involved traversing at least five Jumpgates; not good, considering that the Jumpgates were always heavily defended. Orvax's Justicators had detected them barely eight hours into their flight, and had given chase. Evasive maneuvers had robbed them of precious time, and eventually, Byrak had dodged into a nebula to lose the pursuing Justicators.

The ploy had been successful, but at the cost a good portion of the scout ship's navigation controls. The constantly fluxing electromagnetic fields of the nebula had penetrated even the sophisticated shielding of the ship, and many circuits had been fried. An engineer at heart, Byrak had parked them near a dense neutron star and set to work. The emissions from the star had served to conceal their presence, and after labouring tirelessly for a few hours, Byrak had recovered enough navigational circuits to put them back on-course.

It had been a wild ride since then, running and hiding from the accursedly persistent Justicators. At the very first Jumpgate, Byrak had only won through the naval blockade by charging recklessly into the face of blazing fire. Sustaining minor damage, they had plunged into the Jumpgate. Similarly, they had caught the cordons at the Jumpgate terminus by surprise; Byrak had hazarded a blind hyperspace jump to relative safety.

So it had been for another three more Jumpgates. Once, they had audaciously anchored the ship to the hull of a jumping merchant vessel, and another time, after one of the on-board Gelorians had hacked their ship identification matrix to masquerade as another vessel, they had simply slipped into the queue of vessels waiting to jump.

Their luck had nearly run out at the previous Jumpgate, though. An alert commander had detected anomalies in their transmitted identification matrix, and subsequently barricaded the Jumpgate with a destroyer. He called their bluff and demanded to board their scout ship, which was duly refused as Tynovir opened fire with their plasma cannon. More startled than hurt, the destroyer just sat dumbly there in shocked surprise as the refugees entered the Jumpgate. Another blind hyperspace jump at the terminus of that Jumpgate had brought them this far.

"That's good at least." Kalvar slumped into a chair. In the holds behind, they could hear Byrak's raucous laughter. The rest of the refugees, half a dozen excluding Byrak, were playing _Trinous_, a three-dimension game of strategy with fifty-eight playing pieces. Apparently, Byrak had just caught his opponent in a dangerous vice.

Kalvar mentally reviewed what he knew of the Aryakka Jumpgate defenses. Like the others, it mounted six strategic defense platforms. A naval patrol would undoubtedly be there, now alert and ready for them. How then, would they win through?

After traveling continuously for almost fifty hours, Kalvar was tired enough to give up within a few moments. He envied Byrak, who seemed so resilient, and who was trying his hardest to keep up all their flagging spirits. It was Byrak who had laughingly christened their ship the _Runaway Bride_, following some obscure Earth humour. 

"If I may be so bold, Councilor," Tynovir began. "You are a trained psychic warrior; why do you not use those abilities to defend yourself?"

Cloaked in a dull orange-brown robe that practically hid his slight frame, Kalvar pondered that. "I may be trained in the psychic arts, but it feels ... wrong to use them for violence. Can you imagine it? I have the power to directly extract information from minds, or inspire fear, or even seize control of someone. I fear that if I use those powers, I could get far too used to them."

"But surely it is not wrong to use your powers for self-defense? Or to protect those you care about?"

"Perhaps. But using such power is like pushing a stone downhill, Tynovir. At first, it is very difficult to begin, almost impossible, one might think. But then, as the stone gathers momentum, it becomes easier and easier, and eventually, one simply uses it, without thought nor regard for others."

"That is an overly simplistic argument, Councilor. By watching oneself for signs of growing megalomania, surely one can arrest its development before it goes out of hand."

"Hardly. What is most likely to happen is that one continues to justify to one's usage of power ... each time it is used, self-rationalization will be used to justify its usage. And each time, as the boundary is pushed back a little bit more, one will inevitably, eventually, overstep oneself."

"But that is what others are there for! To help one maintain control."

Kalvar smiled. "Be honest, Tynovir. When was the last time you paid any attention to the advice somebody gave you?"

When the Balorian had no comeback to that, Kalvar continued. "With great power comes great responsibility, yes, I agree, but I prefer to hold that power, yet try and avoid using it every single time. I do not wish to become a monster like Orvax."

"You are running away from your responsibilities, Councilor," Tynovir accused.

"In a manner of speaking. Have I ever truly shirked responsibility, Tynovir? You have known me for, what, twenty-eight years now; you know that I have always held true to what I believe, and I try to suit my actions to that."

"So you are willing to let others walk all over you."

"Yes and no. I try to persuade with words, not force. Others must come to their own conclusions independently, not because I have altered their perceptions forcefully; might does not make right, contrary to what Orvax believes. Even in a fight, when worded properly, the worst aggressors will see the light of reason. After all, diplomacy has solved more problems than violence ever did."

"No, Councilor. Violence has resolved just about every major crisis in the history of the _Tel' Istar_. It is similar in other cultures and races, too."

"It is still wrong to use violence of any kind, Tynovir."

"Needs must, Councilor. I must disagree with you on this, at this point in time. We are in danger, and if you need to use your psychic abilities, then you must."

"We shall see, Tynovir."

"For all our sakes, Councilor, I hope you never have to prove me wrong."

***

  


Orvax stood in the middle of a large, circular room fully thirty meters across. Located five kilometers beneath the planetary surface, it was the main experimental chamber of a classified government research and development unit called the Omega Group. It specialized in unique, and completely immoral, lines of weapons investigation.

The Omega Group had been in operation for almost eighty years now. At first, when Orvax had argued for the need of such radical research publicly, the backlash had been humiliatingly severe, and had almost cost him his council seat. Wisely retreating to allow the outrage to dissipate, Orvax had turned Arraveix - an Antiluvian Patriarch, no mean feat! - to his cause, and between them, had secretly set up the cadre of scientists who formed the core of the Omega Group.

Recognizing that _Tel' Istar_ mindlinks, however sophisticated, could still be blocked, Orvax prioritized the development of an uninterruptible version of the mindlink. While this was scientifically impossible, or at least practically infeasible, the Omega Group found that it could minimize any disruptions. Rather than relying on biomechanical implants, the scientists decided to focus on augmented telepathy.

Labouring for close to thirty years, such research required the presence of many telepathic subjects. Arraveix had procured those unfortunate subjects, and in the ghastly experiments that followed, many died or went insane. Orvax had called a halt to the research when the disappearances of so many telepaths began to garner notice, but resumed the experiments about fifteen years ago, long after the initial furor had died down. 

Old files were retrieved and dusted off. This time, though, with so many advanced developments in technology and psionics, many new avenues of research had become feasible. More importantly, with the Guardian purges in progress, Orvax was able to impound a good many telepaths in just two days. These were handed over to the Omega Group as mostly unwilling participants in their hideous tests.

With this surfeit of fresh knowledge and experimental subjects, it did not take very long for the Omega Group to find the right way to build Orvax his psionic mindlink. In fact, that was what Orvax was here to witness.

In the center of the room, a pit extended five meters into the ground. It was filled with an organic nutrient and lubricating fluid. Immersed in the clear brown solution was a lump of synthesized neural material, studded all over with mechanical conduits for channeling electrical pulses. Wires extended from each conduit to concentration units built at the rim of the pit. There were twelve of these concentration units, each of which was linked by a single, thick cable to twelve large, upright capsules sited around the room. Shackled spread-eagle style in each capsule was a telepath; these were composed of mainly Gelorians and Deltarians, for it was these races that had consistently shown dominant psionic traits, generation after generation. Each was crowned by a steel headband with spikes protruding into the skull.

As some of the captives struggled fruitlessly, others lay back in a near catatonic state. Still others screamed dire curses or promises of bloody vengeance, but Orvax merely grinned at hearing these. Lead scientist Ulithion was hovering five feet up in the air, looking at a holographic display suspended in mid-air. Strangely clad in a metallic body suit, his emaciated body literally quivered in delight; what he saw in the readouts was good, and meant the culmination of many decades of hard, exhausting work.

A surge of telepathic power thrummed through the air, and even a psionically-blunt individual like Orvax could feel it. Their normal telepathic abilities already greatly diluted by the insidious devices of the Omega Group, the captives whimpered once as the command slammed into their minds. Unable to put up any form of mental defence, they were instantly silenced as Ulithion's all-encompassing will ruthlessly crushed theirs. The rest of the scientific staff scrambled around the room like ants, checking and re-checking various instruments.

Eventually, Ulithion was satisfied. He sent his assistants to their respective posts, then floated down sedately and bowed before Orvax.

"My Lord Overseer."

"Ulithion," Orvax returned. "I see that everything is ready?"

"Yes, Lord Overseer." Ulithion began lecturing. "As you already know, to penetrate interstellar distances requires a great mental focus. Acting alone, or even in concert, a telepath, or telepaths, cannot even begin to undertake this monumental task.

"Hence, this can only be achieved by melding individual telepathic abilities into a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts. A sort of overmind, if you will, not all that dissimilar to the way an Antiluvian Patriarch acts as the focus of a Hive. To ensure success, we have devised a psionic augmenter just for this purpose."

Ulithion gestured at the sphere of neural matter in the pit.

"What we have here is a synthesized, physical organic neural network, acting as a psionic conduit; an artificial brain, as it were. The augmenter is built into it, and power already flows into the 'brain'. All that is required now is the influx of psionic potential, to be taken from our experimental subjects here."

Rubbing his hands together gleefully, Ulithion continued. "Harnessing the psionic mind is no mean feat, Lord Overseer, but we have managed it. Unfortunately, a body cannot live without its spirit, so it is inevitable that all these subjects may die. But once the test run is complete, that is, if it completes successfully, they will have achieved true immortality, living on as spirits within the 'brain'.

"Of course, such forceful transplantation of souls is extremely traumatic, and we believe that those who survive the processing into the psionic conduit will be disoriented upon arrival. To help minimize this, complex software will reorganize the relocated spirits into a psionic matrix within the conduit itself. Think of it as a block of prison cells. 

"From each of the inmates of the psionic matrix, we can then begin to extract a controlled measure of psionic power. In essence, these captured souls are reduced to little more than psionic batteries, completely powerless and subject to our will."

Ulithion signaled to an assistant. "And thus, we proceed."

A switch was activated, and the machinery blazed to life. 

"Naturally, this is a very painful process. In deference to my delicate constitution and fragile hearing ..."

Once again, a psionic whip exploded from Ulithion, forcing each and every captive's jaw to lock in place. 

As the life and soul drained from each prisoner, they could not even scream. 

  



	13. The Aliens' Reply

**Chapter 13**

It began as a couple of blips on the long-range radar sensors. On-duty for the second shift, just before dinner, Ensign Kayla Tyler noticed it at once; or rather, she was surprised that the system had failed to pick the contact up earlier. The radar screen showed that the contacts were only 320 kilometers from the western Irish coast, fast approaching the island from the direction of the city of Limerick.

"Where did you come from?" Kayla wondered aloud. "And how did the system miss you earlier on?" Advanced target identification software went into action at the touch of a button, and the computer reported that each contact was over 30 meters in length, and was traveling at a tremendous 2,000 kilometers an hour. At that kind of velocity, they would begin traversing Ireland within the next 10 minutes.

Locating the alert panel, Kayla swiped every single button available there. Alarm klaxons blared to life, shrieking dementedly as the public address system came active. Next to Kayla, Ensign Joseph Black grabbed the microphone and started speaking into it.

"All units alert, confirmed UFO contact. Repeat, confirmed UFO contact."

The first stage of their job complete, Kayla pressed a couple more buttons, linking the radar displays into the advanced tactical program built into the Command and Control Center. LCD monitors activated, bringing up all available strategic data at this point in time, even though no-one was in the CCC yet.

The computer beeped an affirmative at Kayla after completing this, and she proceeded to pick up the telephone. Triggering its cryptographic functions, she opened a line to 10 Downing Street, in London. When the telephone clicked three times in rapid succession, a metallic voice announced that the line was secure. Kayla followed this by punching in a series of numbers denoting this particular type of emergency, knowing that once this was complete, the automated delivery system would immediately page the British Prime Minister and his Defence Secretary.

Calculating the time difference mentally, Kayla noted silently that it was roughly two-thirty in the afternoon in London, and that both British ministers would most likely be caught up in affairs in the House of Lords. It did not matter, for this type of emergency took the absolute top priority.

Exactly one minute and forty-four seconds later, the British Prime Minister, Home Secretary, and Defence Secretary were linked to those in the CCC via secure conference call.

* * *

During this time, Team Rattler had just finished after another session at the firing range. It saved them the trouble of packing away their weapons, and the range officer, Sergeant Clarke, efficiently had every soldier provided with three extra magazines of ammunition. As they ran towards the hangar, Clarke called up the corporal in-charge of the armoury and obtained assurances that Team Rattler's Skyranger was already loaded with heavy weapons, and the HWP was sitting quietly in the rear of the cargo compartment. 

Things were slightly different for Team Shark. They were officially off-duty, but with the implied number of aliens that two UFOs could represent, Wolf made a command decision on the spot, and had Team Shark mobilized as well. At a straight run, Team Shark passed the armoury, and were issued weapons with the customary alacrity. Similar to Team Rattler, their HWP was ready-parked in the rear of the Skyranger, and they quickly filed in, a mere forty-eight seconds later, as Team Rattler's Skyranger closed up its loading ramp.

Their injuries preventing them from active duty, Wolf and Ivan raced down to the CCC as the Skyrangers took off, where they were joined by Andrea. Their attention riveted on the tactical displays, Wolf hurriedly greeted the British ministers on the speaker phone.

Within the next two minutes, the base commander of RAF Leeming, in the British Midlands, received a phone call from the Defence Secretary himself. Orders were given to launch elements of the 25th Squadron, part of the elite No. 11/18 Group, composed of eight Tornado F3s; based on the original Tornado GR1 bomber airframe, these had been specially adapted to perform air interception duties. The base commander assured the Defence Secretary that the Tornadoes would launch in fifteen minutes flat.

This was followed almost immediately by a call to Credenhill, Herefordshire, where the base commander sounded a general alert, and the world-famous 22nd Special Air Service swung into action. Its Counter Revolutionary Warfare Wing, or CRW Wing, serves as a dedicated counter- terrorism unit; amazingly enough, the CRW is only based on a rotation of duty among the existing 22nd SAS squadrons. This means that at any given time, the SAS can field a full 80 men for anti-terror missions. Right now, D Squadron drew the short straw, and began prepping for combat, lugging their weapons and equipment on-board massive Chinook transport helicopters. Simultaneously, the 21st SAS, also called the Territorial Army SAS, was activated at their home base in London itself; although comprised of volunteers and even civilians, the TA SAS selection and training process was, nonetheless, just as strict and difficult as its sister SAS units, and a member of the 22nd SAS was permanently assigned to each of its squadrons. Its main job was long-range reconnaissance, but it had also served in a variety of roles, most notably, perhaps, in a peacekeeping capacity in Bosnia in the early 1990s.

Britain braced itself as the UFOs blazed their way across Ireland. Their vectors became increasingly obvious once they cleared Dublin on the east coast, entering Wales just slightly north of Aberystwyth, then veering slightly south.

"My God, they're going straight for London," Wolf breathed.

* * *

The media in London went into overdrive practically instantly, as the Home Secretary ordered all stations to broadcast specially prepared bulletins in six different languages, including all the major European languages. Citing reasons of national security, possibly a terrorist strike, people were asked to stay in their homes; those out on the streets were asked to move to into buildings to clear the streets. The already overworked London police force began putting up barricades into all the roads leading into the City, enduring shouts and curses of the motorists who suddenly found themselves stranded. Tempers flared in the chilly autumn afternoon, and before long, the police found themselves fighting the very people they were trying to protect. The Territorial Army got called out to help restore order. 

With all due haste, the TA SAS began deploying themselves around the heart of London. The major in-charge of the operation received word that the 22nd SAS was on its way, and grumbled quietly to a few subordinates about just how 160 men were supposed to secure the City center, then went about trying his best to carry out his orders. With a trio of his tactical officers, they selected a few main areas which might possibly be good defense points. Position co-ordinates went out via radio to the commander in-charge of the incoming 22nd SAS, who concurred and congratulated the major on his acute judgment.

Unfortunately, there were those whose curiosity proved stronger than the advice they were hearing over the radio and television stations, and came out to gawk at the fatigue-garbed SAS soldiers. The troopers tried to tell the on-lookers politely that they should proceed indoors for their own safety, and were acknowledged by some, ignored by others.

At Oxford Street, right outside Barclays Bank, the situation got out of hand as one SAS soldier lost his patience with a particularly stubborn group of rubber-neckers, and fired his weapon into the air. Although he was quickly stopped and reprimanded by his squad sergeant, the crowd panicked, and precious minutes were lost as the SAS were suddenly forced to play riot control. As the people were finally rounded up and none too gently ushered into the cramped foyer of the Barclays building, it turned out that they were actually a group of Hungarian and Chinese tourists, who did not speak nor understand very much English.

At Waterloo Train Station, a riot had broken out as people stampeded the Railtrack offices when the trains had been abruptly canceled. Notorious for the rotten state of the British rail system, the Railtrack managers on- site did not bother to give any reasons for the cancellations except that to reiterate that it was a matter of security. Annoyance at the complete lack of information swiftly exploded into full-fledged hostilities, and a fray began between a few irritated customers and a station manager. That spread like wildfire, and many sought refuge in the immobilized trains. In the end, eighteen people suffered injuries, two of them in critical condition, and another four had died before a contingent of TA SAS barged their way in and tossed stun grenades around to help contain the violence. The sergeant in-charge of the squad was marked by many for excessive use of force, and threats of court martials for human rights violations were made to his face. Aware of the greater threat at hand, the sergeant politely apologized to all those present, then personally removed one persistent woman who insisted on screaming in his face.

He did not apologize to her.

* * *

Fortunately, in the City suburbs, things were much calmer. Most citizens were law-abiding, after all, and did not give too much trouble. However, a few groups of disruptive youngsters, called yobs in the local parlance, insisted on making trouble. In no mood to put up with such behaviour, a harassed officer in Croydon, South London, lost his cool and pushed a youth. The gang rounded on the officer and beat him half to death before reinforcements showed up, and twelve teenagers were dumped unceremoniously in the local jail after taking a pounding at the hands of the officers. The local lieutenant at the police station chose to overlook the actions of his men, putting it down to the stress of the moment. 

In Uxbridge, West London, another such group of yobs stood up to a small group of police officers. Instead of turning to violence, however, one canny officer relied on his silver tongue and sharp wits, defusing the situation with some effort. Later on, he would receive a commendation from his superiors.

And in Heathrow Airport itself, Air Control shut down all outgoing flights, and began landing those planes in holding patterns above the airport. Incoming flights were hastily redirected the nearest airports, even long-haul international flights. A United Airlines Boeing 747 found itself landing at Dublin Airport, much to the consternation of its passengers. Other flights were even more drastically re-routed, with one Malaysian Airlines aircraft touching down at Colombo International Airport in Sri Lanka. Cabin crews were forced to deal with irate and abusive travelers, and a fistfight broke out eventually. As a result, two flight stewards lost their jobs, three men suffered minor cuts, and one woman had a broken arm as she tripped and fell while trying to escape the fracas.

Being smaller airports, Luton and Stansted, just outside London itself, completed these tasks far more quickly than Heathrow. As the window for landing all air traffic began closing, announcements came to the various airport directors from the Home Secretary himself, declaring that due to an issue of national security, any air traffic beyond the allocated landing time would be deemed hostile, and immediately shot down. This was backed by a statement from the Prime Minister, and the air controllers re-doubled their efforts with dubious comments on each minister's ancestry.

* * *

Ferried by Chinooks, the 22nd SAS CRW Wing set down near the Millennium Wheel, next to the River Thames, and were greeted by transport vehicles provided by the TA SAS. Their forces began moving out as quickly as possible. Light Strike Vehicles, swift, two-person dune buggies mounted with Fabrique Nationale L7A2 General Purpose Machine Guns, gunned their way through the streets of London, winding past streets crowded with civilian vehicles, and in some cases, avoiding those which were choked by abandoned cars. Other troopers jumped aboard four-tonner transport trucks and were ferried away to possible defense points in the City. 

Support units from the TA SAS had nearly completed establishing a ground command post here, and elements of the 22nd SAS helped to pick up the last few details.

In another four minutes, everything was ready, and tactical officers moved to their posts.

* * *

Some eight minutes before the ground command post was completed, the Tornadoes caught up with the UFOs, approaching the city of Warwick from the east. The targets came at them from the opposite direction, and their introduction to alien technology was rude, indeed. 

From precisely 65 kilometers away, far beyond visual range, the UFOs launched their opening salvo. A pair of fusion torpedoes streaked towards the interception team. Based on antimatter technology, each torpedo warhead functioned on a highly advanced version of the Penning trap. The basic premise of the trap was to use batteries to create a powerful electric field; this, in turn, would generate a magnetic field perpendicular to the lines of electric flux. Antimatter could then be trapped safely in these overlapping fields.

In this case, the antimatter consisted of positrons, or anti- electrons. Powered by smaller versions of the graviton drives on their space- faring vessels, the warhead was equipped with contact and proximity fuses. They blasted through the air at over 5,000 kilometers an hour, reaching the Tornadoes in the a few heartbeats, and detonating in their midst.

The pilots saw the torpedoes as distinct, elongated bolts of silvery fire. They had just begun to execute desperate, evasive maneuvers when the proximity fuses on the alien warheads went off, releasing its positron payload into the surrounding air, where they interacted explosively with the free electrons there. Scientifically, this was known as annihilation, whereby an anti-particle meeting a particle would cause the two to vanish in a cataclysmic release of energy.

In this case, the released energy flash-heated the surrounding air, ionizing the particles and charging them with a surplus of energy. This formed a completely uninhibited reaction of expanding plasma in a nearly perfect sphere, the boundary of which increased with alarming speed. In less than a second, the plasma sphere had doubled its size, then grew almost a hundredfold larger within the next two seconds.

However, plasma energy also tends to dissipate extremely quickly; this is part of the reason why retaining the coherence of a plasma beam is so difficult. The temperature of the plasma dropped at an exponential rate, causing the sphere to collapse in upon itself even as it blew out the last of its power in a dying sigh. This translated into a shockwave that moved outwards with decreasing force, but which still extended for well over two hundred meters.

The combined result of this was that nobody really noticed the initial explosions of the fusion torpedoes. But human reaction times simply were not fast enough, and four Tornadoes flew straight into the expanding plasma. They instantly atomized as the superhot, ionized gas chewed its way through air frames, embedded hardware circuits, solid fuel propellant, and flimsy aluminum. The pilots died so quickly that their brains did not have time to receive the pain signals from vaporized limbs before they were consumed in a flash of heat and light.

* * *

The CCC occupants watched this with disbelief. There were no visual images from the gun cameras; all they saw was the radar detecting the fast moving projectiles expelled by the UFOs, their movement to the fateful point of detonation, and four radar contacts denoting the Tornadoes vanishing from the display. 

"What was that?" Wolf fairly shouted. The rest of the audience was similarly in uproar.

Opening a radio feed straight to the remaining pilots, Wolf ignored the British ministers, and his unsophisticated pragmatism shone through the sudden breakdown in tactics.

"Get out of there!" He screamed into the microphone.

* * *

It was a little too late for that, and in any case, the Tornado pilots did not have time to listen to orders and think, only react. 

Seeing half his flight disappear in the blink of an eye, Captain Alex Manning screamed bloody vengeance, and hit his afterburners. His Tornado closed to medium range, defined as approximately 50 kilometers by the air combat manual, and launched his entire arsenal of four AMRAAM advanced air-to-air missiles, one-by-one. Barely seconds later, the remaining survivors of the interception team followed suit.

Their surprise was complete when the targets began accelerating, moving so fast that by the time the proximity-detonated warheads detected the targets and exploded, the UFOs were already moving beyond the blast radius. In this way, fully nine of the AMRAAMs detonated harmlessly; the last seven missiles peppered the targets, barely scratching one, but pierced the hull of the other.

As they closed, the UFOs answered with a barrage of hot plasma. Chaff and flares did nothing to break the seemingly radar-based target acquisition systems of the enemy, and a pair of Tornadoes disintegrated in rapid succession, raining debris down all over the Warwick suburbs.

Still accelerating, the enemy passed the last two Tornadoes. Still on afterburners, they turned sharply and gave chase in vain. Seething, Captain Manning contacted RAF Leeming and requested reinforcements.

* * *

At Ground Control in London, the operations commander received a call from the Prime Minister, informing him that the air intercept had failed. The military side of things would now be placed squarely in his hands, as the ministerial Cabinet was already en-route to a classified, secure holding area. The British Royal Family had long been evacuated to their own secret hiding place. 

Hanging up the satellite phone, the commander told all SAS units to stand ready for immediate action. By this time, ground-based radar stations had picked up the UFOs, and their positions were being relentlessly tracked.

At RAF Leeming, the base commander had Captain Manning appraise him of the situation over the radio. Shaking his head in dismay at the loss of so many precious lives, he steeled his resolve, and had the rest of the base begin launch preparations. Picking up the phone, he then placed a call to Group Commander R. D. Cobelli at RAF Coltishall, on the east coast. Politely dispensing with the usual courtesies, he requested the Jaguars of the 54th Squadron be ready for an armed response.

In contact with the increasingly tense situation, Commander Cobelli agreed without any arguments, and escalated the alert status at RAF Coltishall. Technicians scrambled about the airfields, outfitting Jaguar bombers with armaments more suitable for an air battle. Just in case the targets grounded themselves, he had a few Jaguars held in reserve, armed with bombs and CRV-7 'dumb' firing rocket pods.

The base commander of RAF Leeming hung up, and turned to watch the busy airfield. By God, he vowed, these bastards were going down if it took every single plane that the 25th Squadron could muster.

* * *

The UFOs headed straight for London after dispensing with the unprepared Tornadoes. As citizens and soldiers looked up in surprised awe, one monstrous craft came to a literal screeching halt just above Leicester Square. Hovering for a moment or two, it slammed down into the small park right in front of the Odeon Theatre, crushing the statue of Shakespeare there and its dolphin accoutrements. Shaped like a rectangular box with pods at the extreme ends, the UFO was fully two stories high. Hatches slid open in the pods, and monsters stalked from within. 

The other, damaged, UFO wobbled unsteadily in its flight right behind its wingmate. Right above Trafalgar Square, it released twenty-six silvery- grey spheres before heading west, out of London; these crashed to the ground, sending flurries of agitated pigeons up into the sky, then split in half to reveal nightmares made flesh.

With grim resolve, the brave men and women of the SAS charged forward to meet them.

* * *

The parabolic, suborbital maneuver used by the Skyrangers took them to London in just under an hour. Team Rattler headed straight for Leicester Square, with orders to capture and neutralize the UFO if possible; the other Skyranger blasted off for Trafalgar Square a short distance away, to help the SAS contain the alien menace. 

The slaughter in Leicester Square was terrible to behold. Unprepared for the devastating plasma weapons the aliens carried, thirty soldiers had been completely obliterated with barely a chance to respond. Reinforcements coming in from the Barbican Gate area listened to the horrified screams over the comm-net, and the sergeant in-charge wised up to the situation. As reports of the aliens streaming into buildings to attack the trapped civilians filtered in, he had his men sling their SA-80 assault rifles for Remington 870 pump-action shotguns. At close range, a blast of 15-guage buckshot had more stopping power than a rifle round.

Visual sighting of the enemy showed them to be serpent-like creatures, accompanied by some sort of bipedal, black insect. Shrugging - he was not being paid to identify what he was killing - the sergeant took his squad in to Leicester Square. Grimacing as he saw many of his fellows blasted or ripped apart, the sergeant maintained his cool and resolve, and was sharp enough to spot the twitching 'corpses'.

As the germinating Chryssalids tore free of their dead hosts, the sergeant had enough time to order his squad to bring their shotguns to bear. Weapons thundered, and the volley hammered into the Chryssalids. Barely slowing down, the first aliens reached the squad, and men began to die.

Reacting quickly, the sergeant had his men fall back in a organized retreat, leapfrogging backwards. SAS discipline paid off as each soldier took precise aim at each approaching Chryssalid, the powerful close-range blasts from the shotguns knocking them off-balance, or even right off their feet, buying enough precious time that the squad could take cover in the ruins of the Starbucks café nearby.

Not everything was going so smoothly. Just a little distance away, on Gerrard Street, another group of reinforcements ran full-tilt into an alien battle group; surprised SAS soldiers turned a corner and came face-to-face with a team of snakemen and Chryssalids. The two black horrors bounded forward, taking down the leading squad members, one of them a sergeant. The rest of the team frantically unleashed everything in their arsenal at the aliens, firing their SA-80s and M-16s. The storm of fire took out one Chryssalid and two snakemen, and the SAS troopers broke formation to take advantage of what available cover there was.

This was mostly parked cars and recessed doorways, which were of little use against plasma fire. The snakemen shot the soldiers out from under their cover, plasma bolts blowing clean through concrete or car bodies to punch smoking holes in those hiding behind. The squad was eliminated swiftly, and the aliens started heading north along Shaftsbury Avenue, towards the Charing Cross area.

* * *

The fleeing UFO came face-to-face with Captain Manning and his wingman, still in hot pursuit. Pleased that he was going to get a second chance, Manning ignored the plasma bursts coming at him and armed his last four missiles. Closing to point-blank range - this being ten kilometers or less - he triggered them in sequence, and the deadly ASRAAMs sped away. 

Built by Matra BAE Dynamics, Ltd., under the auspices of a UK national project, the program had begun in 1992, and the first batch of missiles was delivered in December, six years later, in 1998. Designated the AIM-132, the ASRAAM was hailed as a next-generation, high performance short-range air-to-air missile, supposed to deliver a superior performance over current systems, thus allowing combat superiority against all present and projected threats. The design was wingless, relying on its aerodynamic tail control to give it speed and agility. Target acquisition and tracking was achieved by an advanced imaging infrared seeker, courtesy of Raytheon- Hughes, and state-of-the-art image processing; coincidentally, the main market competitor to the ASRAAM, the updated Sidewinder AIM-9X missile, used the same infrared seeker. The brain of the missile, the Electronics and Power Units, or EPU, was perhaps the most powerful computer system ever devised and used in a missile, offering all-round target designation to augment an aircraft's own sensors; from a pilot's perspective, this meant that targets could be acquired anywhere in the forward hemisphere. Its killing ability came from a high-energy fragmentation warhead, initiated either by impact or target proximity.

Truth be told, the ASRAAMs were only still in the last phase of development, prior to true active deployment. Captain Manning had no idea whose idea it was to mount these experimental missiles on a combat mission, but he had seen some of the test firing data, and even witnessed one live firing exercise in which several Phantom drones had been destroyed in spectacular fashion.

The ASRAAMs did not disappoint.

A quantum improvement over the aging Sidewinder series of short-range air-to-air missiles, four AIM-132s slammed into the UFO at well over three times the speed of sound. The silvery hull fractured visibly, and through the rents, Manning could see bright flames and thick, black smoke.

Even mortally wounded, the enemy tried to put up a fight. The plasma beams which missed Captain Manning struck his wingman a glancing blow. Never meant to take this kind of abuse, the Tornado bucked wildly as the pilot fought for control. With a last, desperate burst of effort, the pilot heroically brought the Tornado in-line with the UFO, intent on ramming the enemy. Moments before the impact, Manning saw the aircraft canopy blow away and the ejection mechanism activate, propelling the pilot and his navigator to relative safety.

The crash detonated the unfired missiles still on the Tornado. The explosions disintegrated one side of the UFO, shredding the alien metal as if it were paper. Spinning madly, the alien vessel came down hard, crashing near to the town of Reading. The velocity of its impact sent the craft bouncing over the ground, destroying what little hull integrity it had left, and spilling its innards all over. The Elerium-based propulsion system finally ruptured, and a huge sheet of flame belched forth to make a gigantic crater in the earth, fully fifty meters across.

All the while, Captain Manning laughed hysterically, amazed at this historic engagement, and horrified at the deaths of so many of his friends. He followed the UFO as it crashed, tracking its progress with the internally-mounted Mauser 27mm cannon, and emptying its magazine in a furious blaze of gunfire at the already-dead target.

The shouting voice of his navigator finally brought him back from the edge, and a suddenly exhausted Captain Manning turned his Tornado and headed back to RAF Leeming.

* * *

At Trafalgar Square, two fire teams of the 22nd SAS had managed to fight the aliens to a standstill. Lieutenant Alan Bloom had realized that mere assault weapons fire was not going to stop the intruders, so he formed up thirty men and had them use grenades and LAWs indiscriminately. The explosions blew out store fronts, building foyers, pavements, and took a big chunk out of Nelson's Column, but the aliens were forced to take cover. Chryssalids broke away from the main group, heading for the National Gallery on the north side of the Square - where terrified tourists huddled in the dubious safety of the building. 

The lieutenant had Mobility Troop Light Strike Vehicles harass these interlopers, while his fire teams fought desperately to advance. The four bronze lions at the base of Nelson's Column, sculpted by the master Sir Edwin Landseer and cast by Marocchetti, and standing their lonely vigil since 1868, were quickly reduced to molten pools of slag as plasma fire slammed into them. SAS troopers splashed into the fountain pools, monuments since 1939, crouching behind the fountain rims, rising occasionally to snap off a few shots.

One LSV, having run out of ammunition for its mounted machinegun, opted to ram a Chryssalid. The alien leapt out of the way, landing its heavy frame on top of the LSV. The driver understandably panicked and lost control, and the buggy slew and crashed headlong into the National Gallery's annex, the Sainsbury Wing, knocking a hole in the concrete wall. Dozens of frightened people peered out from the ruined façade, even as the Chryssalids took advantage of that and charged the breach.

The dazed driver and his gunner had survived the crash, but they were the very first to die as the frenzied Chryssalids tore into the National Gallery.

* * *

Word of this filtered back to Base Avalon in a minute flat. Monitoring the battle, Wolf turned pale when he heard this. One glance at Ivan showed that the Russian was thinking along the same lines. 

"There must be, what, at least 200 people in there?" Wolf muttered to himself. His voice trembling, he spoke into the speaker phone.

"Mr. Prime Minister, you must order an air strike, and destroy the National Gallery and everyone inside it."

This was greeted by outraged incredulousness from the British ministers. "This is the National Gallery we are talking about!"

"I object," the Home Secretary said. "The treasures in the Gallery are priceless! Leonardo Da Vinci, Rebens … not to mention the National Portrait Gallery itself!"

"Sirs, please listen." Wolf spoke quietly. "Those things, we call them Chryssalids. They infect human hosts with some sort of egg, and these mature in minutes. Eighteen people have already died for us to discover that; four more died so that we could prove it. How many people are there in the Gallery right now? If even just half of them are used to hatch out new Chryssalids …"

"This … information, it is accurate, Colonel?" A stunned Prime Minister asked a few moments later.

"You can check with our head xenobiologist, Dr. Paul McNeilly, if you want to, sir. There might not be enough time now, though. I will have Dr. McNeilly send you a full report once things are resolved here."

Everyone could hear the Prime Minister thinking. The man was not one to shy away from hard decisions, but this one was made far easier by the simple fact that he really had no other viable options.

"Contact RAF Coltishall." They heard him say. "Launch the Jaguars. I want the National Gallery and every building around it flattened."

"Mr. Prime Minister!" The Home Secretary protested. "There are still people in those buildings!"

"This is a war, Mr. Home Secretary." They could hear the regret in the Prime Minister's voice. "It's called collateral damage."

Wolf and Ivan let the argument continue on without them. The Russian glanced worriedly at the Colonel. "Let us hope they get there in time."

* * *

Barry Unger was having a very bad day. He was on leave from work for a short vacation in London, from his Hungary-based finance firm, but nothing had prepared him for this. 

Things had started out well enough, with a full English breakfast, and a bus ride down to the National Gallery. He had been wandering through the Portrait Gallery when a rich, Leeds-accented voice had come over the public address system, informing all visitors and staff to stay within the building for safety reasons.

Everybody had crowded into the larger galleries, seeking comfort in the herd mentality. They had heard the explosions and gunfire outside, and chips of plaster occasionally fell from the walls and roof as the building shook. Terrified, with nowhere to run, Barry had just started to panic when one wall caved in and a buggy came crashing through.

The runaway vehicle crushed two people before coming to a halt, the dazed drivers barely able to unbuckle themselves. Dim sunlight from the overcast skies outside caught the swirling dust and debris in the air, and the spiraling motions were just enough to distract Barry from the ebony nightmares that came in through the violated wall moments later.

The Hungarian saw those creatures leap into the crowd, slashing some with their claws, and embracing others before dropping their senseless bodies to the ground. The throngs of people panicked as the bloodbath began. Barry tried to run away, but there was nowhere to go as the exits were clogged with screaming, terrified individuals.

When he saw the germinating Chryssalids tear free of their hosts, his mind went numb with the sheer horror of it. Barry remained that way, unresisting until a Chryssalid grabbed him and shot its ovipositor down his throat.

Abruptly brought back to the present, Barry tried to scream.

But, by then, it was far too late.

* * *

RAF Coltishall duly launched the 54th Squadron. The Prime Minister formally noted the objections of Group Commander Cobelli, and sent a message to Ground Control. The SAS troopers, fighting for their lives in Trafalgar Square, cursing at the orders coming from above, nonetheless obeyed the order to fall back. They were soldiers first and foremost, and even from here, through the cacophony of gunfire, they could hear the screams of those being slaughtered in the National Gallery. 

The aliens took full advantage of the sudden reduction in resistance, and charged. Nelson's Column finally took enough punishment to topple it, the 170 foot tall pillar crashing to the ground with a resounding thud, and breaking into several pieces. The 18- foot high statue of Admiral Nelson split clean in half, and ricocheting plasma rounds took an arm, then a leg, then part of his head off. Surely, the Admiral must be turning in his grave at St. Paul's Cathedral.

Team Shark arrived on the scene just then, heroically dropping from the Skyranger on to the battlefield. The aliens saw the craft, and some opened fire with their plasma rifles as it sped past. Ignoring the welcoming hail of fire, Monique spread the team in a skirmish line, opening fire with their XCRs. Corporals Simon Cork and Abigail Dangerfield had been assigned the squad plasma weapons, and Monique directed their fire at the Chryssalids first.

Private Alison Wilkins found herself next to a pair of dirtied and battered SAS soldiers. One of them flashed her a surprisingly brilliant smile, and stuck out a hand.

"Hello there. Malcolm Palmer, at your service. TA SAS in times like these, recruitment consultant with Robert Walters at others."

She just had to smile back. "Alison Wilkins, classified Special Forces. Glad to meet you, Malcolm. How're you doing?"

"Not bad, considering the circumstances. Say, what would you be doing after this?" Malcolm stuck his SA-80 over his head and fired blindly.

"Nothing. Why?" Alison followed suit.

"How about I take you out for a drink? The Salisbury is just around the corner on St. Martin's Lane, and it's quite good. I mean, that is, if it's still standing after all this."

She laughed. "Sure, why not. And afterwards, I'll jump on your bones till they rattle."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "That sounds interesting. Are all American girls this forward?"

Smiling wickedly, Alison put an arm around Malcolm's neck and pressed her lips to his. "No, it's just me."

They turned their attention back to the fight as Malcolm's colleague shook his head wonderingly.

* * *

Suddenly faced with firepower equal to their own, the aliens put up a desperate fight. Lance-Corporal Trevor caught a snakeman with a shot that pierced its side. As the alien fell, he broke cover discipline and ran forward to retrieve its plasma rifle, ignoring cries for him to desist. Dropping his XCR, he grabbed the rifle just as a Chryssalid vaulted over a heap of rubble and slammed into him. Trevor screamed once before the Chryssalid rammed its ovipositor down his throat.

Drake turned his MG36 on the monster as it finished with Trevor. The huge machinegun chattered and seared a line of 5.56mm holes in its chest. Refusing to fall, the Chryssalid staggered forward under the deadly attention of the MG36, two XCRs, and massed fire from another four SA-80 assault rifles. Abigail finally caught it with a plasma blast that exploded its torso and sent chunks of steaming, grayish alien flesh flying everywhere.

The distraction had been costly. With their hardest hitting weapon diverted, a trio of snakemen slithered around to the right, where their plasma rifles slammed into the SAS troopers and X-Com soldiers. Two men from the SAS were instantly vaporized, and Private Ian Campbell had his right arm shot off. The pain was so momentous, he could not even scream. Monique chanced a mad rush to the injured private, and got her arms around his chest. She tugged frantically as Private Frank and Lance-Corporal Andrea Lee laid down covering fire.

Finally managing to drag the mutilated man behind the cover of a fallen block of concrete, Monique found that Ian was already dead from the shock. Cursing, she grabbed his spare magazines and shoved them into her pockets.

"If we …" Andrea began.

They never found out what she was thinking of. A lance of sapphire energy sliced into Andrea, and everything above her neck disappeared in a burning ball of fire. The scorched corpse tottered once, then another couple of plasma rounds struck and ripped it apart.

Ignoring the drizzle of human parts, Private Frank coolly took careful aim and punched Duplex-sized holes in one of the three snakemen. The remaining snakeman dodged behind cover, but Frank pulled out a pair of grenades and chucked them, one-by-one, at the hiding aliens. He ducked for cover, and satisfying booms and screams told him that the aliens had been neutralized.

A moment later, Monique left the corpses of her comrades beside Frank and crawled her way to Drake. The big man had already discarded one of the Beta drums for his machinegun, and was already halfway through his second drum.

"How many have we lost?" Drake wanted to know.

"So far, three dead," Monique shook her head. "This is not very good."

"I disagree. I count fifteen snakes dead, and three Chryssalids."

Abigail was proving to be a natural with her heavy plasma rifle. Spinning and twirling with all the grace of a ballet dancer, she sent bolt after bolt of plasma at the remaining aliens. One side effect of its antigravity acceleration firing mechanism was that it greatly reduced the weight of the heavy plasma; barely heavier than a pistol when primed, it was a devil to carry when safed. She caught three more Chryssalids with calculated headshots, then her magazine ran dry. Simon was less skilled with his plasma rifle, but also made a good accounting of himself, blazing azure pulses at the foe while Abigail reloaded. They made a good team.

Between the SAS and X-Com combat team, the aliens in Trafalgar Square were being butchered. The fate of the last group of stubborn snakemen was sealed when Hans finally brought his HWP into play. Mounting an eight-shot Mistral antitank missile system, the heavy machine had been unloaded some distance away; there had simply been no room for the Skyranger to set down here.

Hans was an expert driver, for all his claims that he was really a pacifist; he rammed what he could, went around others, and in some cases, simply crushed other obstacles in his path beneath the HWP tank treads. Unlike Dieter, Hans did not suffer from eye dominance, and was quite comfortable watching the projected view from the HWP gun camera while keeping track of the on-goings of the battlefield.

The system beeped once as the HWP locked on to the trio of aliens, hiding behind a broken pillar. They never turned around to see the HWP fire a pair of Mistral rockets at them. The explosions blew a twenty-meter wide crater in the ground, and the beleaguered soldiers cheered.

But then the first wave of newly hatched Chryssalids sallied forth from the National Gallery.

* * *

Team Rattler was currently being flown by Captain Benjamin Shelton. Captain Shelton actually was more accustomed to flying C-130E Hercules transports and air-dropping supplies to ground units. This did not mean that he had a safe job; on the contrary, it made him a prime target since he formed part of the supply chain. Benjamin knew this from hard experience, having served in the Gulf War, and had done more than his fair share of dodging anti-aircraft fire. Still, this was the very first time he was actually performing a combat air drop.

The pressure on him was enormous, even after the training he had been through. When the UFO began closing its deployment hatches, logic told him that it was preparing to leave. Once it was airborne, the weaponless Skyranger would be a sitting duck, and Captain Shelton was all too aware of that.

His judgment was the usual excellent standard, and the Skyranger came in high enough to avoid most of the short-range ground fire, but just low enough that Team Rattler could deploy quickly and safely.

They did, just in time to see the SAS men dive for cover into the destroyed Starbucks café. Part of the team had dropped off on top of the Odeon itself, including Dieter, since there was nowhere to set down his HWP; the others had deployed right in front of the Clocktower Building in the south of the Square.

But Captain Shelton was only human, after all, and made mistakes. As Major Ishiyama acknowledged that his team had gained the ground without incident, Benjamin opened the throttle and made ready to speed away. To his dismay, the UFO had already risen off the ground, far enough to present a formidable barrier to his flight.

There was no time to correct his exit vector; Captain Shelton said a silent, final prayer for his wife, kids, and the rest of Humanity as he yanked the control yoke back desperately.

The Skyranger slew sideways and slammed into the UFO.

* * *

Private Banning and those trying to fight their way to ground level through the Odeon cinema never saw all this. Upon landing, Banning had run to the roof access hatch, and shot the lock off. With a single vicious kick, he stove in the partially rusted metal. Below, he could hear screams as the Chryssalids continued their deadly work. Quickly lowering himself in, backed by three other soldiers, Banning entered the projection room.

"Lights!" He shouted at the petrified operator, huddled in a corner. The man only responded when Banning grabbed him by the lapels and shook him violently. A pointed finger, and the private found the switch controlling the cinema lights. He stabbed a finger at the switch, and the dim cinema lights came on.

It was a charnel house in the Odeon. Banning could see screaming patrons crowding the emergency exits as utter chaos reigned; those who were being slaughtered outside the cinema were trying their best to get in, while those who were being butchered inside were trying to escape. Chryssalids bounded all around, killing with abandon. Dismembered torsos and limbs were strewn all over, and it looked as if some careless painter had taken a high-pressure hose of red paint and redecorated the interior.

The lights coming on seemed to surprise those below, and Banning took full advantage of it. He opened up with his XCR, heavy bullets shredding the glass screen between the projection room and the theatre proper. In the small space, the din of the firing weapon was deafening.

Unable to tell who had been infected and who was still human, Banning simply shot everything he could see, be it alien, human, corpse, or inanimate matter.

His colleagues were not slow in following. Leaning out of the projection room, Private Fraser went one step further and hurled a pair of grenades. The explosions shook the very foundations of the Odeon, and plaster from the ceiling came down in a filthy shower. A moment behind Fraser, Dieter stumbled into the projectionist's chair, losing his balance while trying to cock his pistol at the same time. He caught himself just in time, then went around randomly pumping 9mm bullets into the crowd.

Meanwhile, Lance-Corporal Gwen Fox pushed the film projector aside, clearing the way for her to fire her XCR just as indiscriminately as the others. As many civilians as aliens caught the hail of bullets, and more screams filled the air.

On the roof, Rattler Sniper Leo set his 18-pound gun down on a ledge after wrapping the barrel carefully with a length of muslin cloth. This would help to cushion the weapon when it fired, reducing some of the muzzle blast and backward movement. Tucking the rifle in tight to his shoulder, Leo chambered his first round. His job was to keep the aliens confused enough for Ishiyama and the rest of Team Rattler on the ground to gain the alien craft.

Leo counted eight aliens below. Four of them broke away from keeping the SAS team pinned down, and started for Ishiyama's fire team. Sighting down his targeting scope, the sniper took precise aim and made his first kill of the engagement; a snakeman caught two 7.62mm bullets in the head and toppled over, its brains scrambled.

The others were not stupid. They knew from the angle of the shot that a sniper just had to be on the rooftops somewhere, and although Leo tried to get a second volley off before he had to duck for cover, the snakes found him a moment later.

Cursing, Leo grabbed the PSG-1 and threw himself backwards, praying that the impact would not break the delicate Hensoldt-Wetzlar telescopic sight. Plasma fire came burning up at him, shattering the roof ledge and raining stone shards down to the earth below.

A little singed by the concentrated fire, the sniper took his gun in his hands and leopard-crawled to another corner of the roof, where he began setting up shop once more. Ready in a few moments, Leo peered over another part of the fractured ledge, intent on some payback.

Then he saw the Skyranger hit the UFO.

* * *

The impact shattered the fragile Skyranger frame, opening its interior to the air and spilling the explosive fuel that it used as a propellant. Ignited by the friction of metal-against-metal, a catastrophic detonation sounded through Leicester Square and turned the Skyranger into a lethal rain of shrapnel.

On the ground, Ishiyama and his team had been trying to take full advantage of Leo's efforts. He had five troopers on the ground, three of them fielding heavy weapons. As the snakes tried to shoot the sniper from the roof, the major had his men take what meager cover there was left in Leicester Square.

That was about all that saved them when the Skyranger-UFO collision occurred. Shards of red-hot metal came slicing in at them, and the X-Com combat team buried their faces in the hard concrete ground. The following shockwave buffeted them, and picked up all sorts of objects and flung the debris at them. By the time the artificial storm cleared, everyone was sporting numerous bruises and cuts. Ishiyama himself had a jagged steel splinter lodged in his left shoulder, which he simply ripped out with a grunt; the flowing blood would cleanse the wound, and in any case, he doubted that anything vital had been pierced.

The snakemen standing out in the open fared much worse. Pushing aside the junk that had half-buried him, the major stood on shaky legs and cast his eyes about. The snakes had been reduced to bloodied ribbons of flesh; he saw one with a broom rammed clean through its body, and another with a dustbin lid that had practically half-sawn its head off. Fires raged through Leicester Square.

Ishiyama's team slowly stumbled to their feet. Better protected by the café façade, the SAS soldiers were relatively unscathed, and rose up to greet the stunned soldiers. Sergeant Angus McGregor gave them his relieved thanks, but his thick, Scottish burr made much of his speech difficult to understand.

One of the SAS soldiers winked at an embarrassed Ishiyama when it became apparent that the Japanese man had hardly caught a word the Scot said. "Don't worry, mate. 'alf the time, we can't understand him, either."

They looked around for the UFO, and found that its rugged construction had enabled it to survive the collision intact. The impact had thrown it into the buildings just opposite the Odeon. The frames had never been meant to absorb such shocks, and had snapped. Two stories worth of screaming civilians, concrete blocks, and assorted office material had come down on the alien vessel and buried it.

As they clambered over the rubble to get at the UFO, Ricardo found that Captain Shelton had miraculously survived. He was stuck under a burning piece of Skyranger, unconscious, and the team quickly unearthed him. Sergeant McGregor's medic gave him a quick look-over, and pronounced the pilot only a little bruised and battered, but otherwise remarkably unhurt.

Smelling salts brought the man back to consciousness, and a dazed Captain Shelton still insisted on joining the fight. Honouring the pilot for his resilience and courage, Ishiyama pulled out a handgun and handed it over to him.

Team Rattler formed up alongside Sergeant McGregor and his men, and they were preparing to storm the UFO when its hatches hissed open, and a ravening Syrax came lunging out in a killing frenzy.

* * *

"This is awfully familiar," Monique groaned to Drake as he dropped his empty MG36 and snatched up a fallen SA-80.

"I know," he agreed grimly as he racked the slide and let fly.

The Chryssalids boiling out of the National Gallery seemed endless. Combined heavy fire had stopped the first wave of the enemy, but as fast as the aliens were being killed, more came up from behind their dead kin. They clambered over their slaughtered kind and charged the SAS and X-Com positions, threatening to overwhelm the defenders through sheer weight of numbers alone.

Han's HWP had been one of the first casualties. Without room to maneuver, it was little more than target practice for the Chryssalids, and three of the monsters had swarmed over it and dismantled it piece by piece. In a panic, Hans turned the HWP towards the National Gallery and tried to fire off every single remaining missile as quickly as possible. Four projectiles streaked towards the National Gallery façade, bringing the ancient architecture down in a cascade of stone and concrete. Then one of the Chryssalids must have damaged the missile firing breech, and the next rocket went off inside the machine.

The HWP blew itself and the assaulting Chryssalids to smithereens. The explosion touched off the last missile in the magazine, and a twenty-meter cavity was instantly excavated right in the middle of Cockspur Street.

Pulling out his Browning Hi-Power, Hans found Sandrine in the melee, and settled in down beside her. He pushed up the drop-down HWP control camera and started shooting. His aim was its usual miserable standard, but there were so many of the foe, even Hans hit more often than he missed. Clearing two magazines in a hurry, the HWP driver holstered his pistol and went looking for another gun.

Not too far away, Louis Marcelle was with Corporal Neville. They ran out of ammunition for their XCRs almost simultaneously, and after a moment of panic, Neville put aside his XCR and drew his bayonet and sidearm, and charged the enemy. He lasted exactly two seconds against the five Chryssalids they were facing.

Louis was not prone to such heroics. The empty rifle clanged to the ground as Louis pulled out a matched pair of Fabrique Nationale BDA9 pistols. They were a present from his first wife, may she rest in peace. Each pistol held 14 rounds, and he was an expert in their use. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, Louis located a trio of SAS soldiers who were blazing away at the enemy and began retreating there. He fired the pistols in a curious left-right sequence, never simultaneously. Several tense moments later, Louis got to the SAS position unscathed. Checking his pistols, he was pleased to see that his careful conservation of ammunition had still left him with six bullets in either gun. Picking up a SA-80 from a dead soldier, he joined the trio in shooting at the foe.

The speed of the Chryssalids caught most of the SAS soldiers off- guard. Three of them went down under flashing claws in the first moments of the assault, until grenades tore the marauding aliens apart. Weapons went empty all too quickly, and some troopers frantically pulled out their sidearms while others searched for replacement weapons.

"Where's that fancy X-ray gun of ours?" Drake shouted. His SA-80 had jammed, and with no time to clear it, the man tossed it aside and pulled out his P226. He reached behind Monique and grabbed her holstered Desert Eagle, then rose with a pistol in either hand and started firing away.

"In orbit," Monique panted as the last bullets left her rifle. Touching the magazine release, she let the empty container clatter to the ground and pulled out her last reload. She slammed it home and cocked the weapon savagely, then continued firing. "I think it is probably over Australia right now."

"Wonderful," Drake grunted, amazed at how quickly his pistols ran dry. He helped himself to the .357 magazine in Monique's right trouser pocket. "Just when we need it."

"Hey! Watch those hands!"

"Sorry."

* * *

The Odeon cinema was really composed of three buildings: the Odeon Leicester Square proper, the Mezzanine, and the West End. Together, they provided six mini-theatres for movie-goers. To the small team of X-Com soldiers inside, that meant an awful lot of ground to cover.

By the time the smoke from the gunfire had cleared, most of the civilians in the theatrette were dead. There was no time to feel any remorse; they could all hear the sounds of battle elsewhere in the cinema. Some of the civilians had plucked up enough courage to go head-to-head with the marauding Chryssalids, and most of these had winded up as hosts for Chryssalid larvae.

Deciding to make another entrance, Banning had Fraser pull out his LAW. The rest of them cowered in the projection room as the private activated the missile. An explosion staved in the west wall, blowing a hole clean through to the next theatrette. Civilians and aliens standing next to the wall were instantly killed by the blast, and the shockwave from the explosion knocked down the rest.

Lance-Corporal Fox was the next to fire off a second LAW into the hole, and this one tore a second aperture clean into the wall of the second theatrette - which actually stood in a corner of the building, and so, actually ripped an egress point out to Leicester Square on the second floor.

The force of the detonation reduced everything and everyone in the second theatrette to shreds, as most of the blast-wave was contained in the small room. Banning and Dieter went through anyway, and had to wade through a literal sea of charred and blackened bodies. Deciding that there was nothing left, they went back to Gwen and Fraser, where grenades were used to destroy the walls to the next theatrette.

In this manner, Banning and his group slowly and painfully scoured the Odeon of all life.

* * *

Up north just slightly, Shaftsbury Avenue was a war zone straight out of Vietnam. As the aliens fought their way up towards Charing Cross, they were met by stiff resistance from the TA SAS and an assortment of civilians.

Financial advisors grabbed and threw chunks of broken concrete alongside punks with bright pink hair-dos. Fatigue-clad soldiers fired their assault rifles, gladly turning over their sidearms to stooped grandmothers who had never held a weapon in their entire lives. And from the low-rise buildings all along the street, people leaned out from the windows and pelted the aliens with whatever came in handy, from pencils to typewriters, and even filing cabinets.

The message was clear: get out of London, and stay out!

The impromptu resistance movement took the aliens completely by surprise. Still, they were trained soldiers, and after a few seconds or so of this abuse, the snakemen began retaliating.

As incandescent plasma began vaporizing the crowd, somebody tossed a fire extinguisher at the aliens from a second floor office. By chance, a ricochet from an armour piercing round struck and penetrated the extinguisher's metal casing. Suddenly released from high pressure, the extinguisher exploded, transformed abruptly into a cloud of high-speed shrapnel.

Metal shards peppered the aliens, bringing a snakeman down and forcing the others to dodge for cover.

The idea rapidly took hold, and three more fire extinguishers were pitched down. Precise shots from the SAS troopers detonated the makeshift grenades, and the enemy was swiftly taken down thus.

Still mad with bloodlust, the mostly civilian mob swarmed over the wounded aliens, and tore them limb from limb.

* * *

Captain Charles Avery was flight commander for this detachment of eight Jaguar GR3s from the 54th Squadron. He was an on his way to becoming an ace pilot, having previously served in the 1991 Gulf War, where he had three confirmed kills to his name; three crudely painted skulls next to his cockpit proclaimed this to the rest of the world - no mean feat, considering that the Jaguar was never meant to be a dedicated air-to-air fighter.

His Jaguars were loaded with 3,000 kilos worth of bombs, and packed with addition CRV-7 rocket pods and deadly antipersonnel CBU-87 cluster bomb units. As a last ditch weapon, each Jaguar was equipped with a pair of 30mm Aden guns and close-range AIM-9L Sidewinder missiles.

The Jaguars had distinguished themselves in the Gulf War, and Captain Avery was determined that their fine record would be upheld today. Under afterburners at speeds of well over a thousand kilometers an hour, the bombers rapidly ate up the distance between Trafalgar Square and RAF Coltishall.

* * *

Ensign Kayla was still on-duty when the radar registered Captain Avery and his Jaguars launching from RAF Coltishall and began making their way to London. The alarm klaxons had long ceased wailing, and now only a dull red light emitted from the illuminating fixtures in the ceiling. She glanced away for a moment, reaching for her thermos flask of Gatorade. Uncapping the flask, she raised it to her lips, and promptly let go of the container when the radar console beeped suddenly enough to startle her. Ignoring the spilled drink and her soggy shirt, she hastily set the dripping flask aside and looked at the display.

Another two radar contacts were coming in hard and fast.

Stunned realization hit her after another five seconds. By then, Ensign Black had grabbed the microphone and started shouting into it.

"All units alert, another confirmed UFO contact. Repeat, another confirmed UFO contact."


	14. The Battle Continues

Chapter 14  
  
The soldiers fighting for their lives in London could not hear the second UFO alert being sounded, of course. Neither could they see the stunned looks on those in the CCC, nor hear the invective spewing from the British Prime Minister when he received a situation update mere moments later.  
What Ishiyama and his squad saw was a terrifying, armoured hulk, tearing its way free of the downed UFO before them. The mangled bay doors barely slowing the monster, it reached out with the scythe-like blades growing from its shoulders and cut clean through the alien metal.  
Syrax was two meters tall, and weighed in at just under a ton. A good portion of that was his silicon exoskeletal armour, tough enough to withstand even a direct plasma blast. The remainder of that contributed to his formidable muscle tissue, with the last bits saved for the Chryssalid ovipositor and reproductive system.  
With at least another half a year more before full maturity into an Antiluvian Patriarch, Syrax did not yet resemble his monstrous parent.  
Still bipedal, the proto-Patriarch had already grown a tail as long as he was tall. It was tipped with a silicon spike, sharp and strong enough to pierce solid steel. As the humans stared gawking in numbed horror, Syrax whipped this appendage over his head, slamming it into what little remained of the encumbering bay doors.  
The force shattered the last remnants of the flimsy barrier. Extending his four arms in the traditional gesture of the sacred Drai- nikkar, the duel to the death, Syrax roared his rage and thirst for vengeance.  
  
The sheer menace in that roar needed no translation.  
Yet, Ishiyama felt something in that awful bellow, something that transcended the need for language, and cut across the species barriers.  
The beast, standing in all its dreadful glory, with its blade-arms angled smartly over its shoulders, and its Chryssalid-claws extended to the side ...  
It had all the solemnity of a ritual.  
Somehow, Ishiyama knew. The beast had issued its challenge, a trial of combat that could only end when either it, or its opponents, were dead.  
For a moment, the Japanese Major had the crazy urge to bow ceremoniously and acknowledge the ritual.  
That moment passed in an eye-blink when the alien colossus moved far too quickly for something so large, and landed right in the middle of his strike group.  
  
The battle frenzy singing in his veins, Syrax lashed out at the humans with everything he had. He punched his scythe-arms through one helpless soldier, then wheeled and slammed another with his tail. The human sailed through the air, crashing into a tree with enough force to completely split the trunk in two.  
Exultant in surety of his superiority, Syrax screamed his triumph to the heavens.  
He was an Antiluvian, and nothing could stop him.  
  
The thick palls of smoke were visible from miles away. High up in the air, Captain Avery was horrified at the extent of damage London had suffered already. Arming his weapons, the flight commander sent a signal back to HQ, indicating that his wing was now in position and ready to commence bombing runs.  
  
Ishiyama watched in horror as the monstrosity came down in their midst.  
Before anyone could move, the monster literally ripped one man apart and sent another flying with a casual flick of its tail.  
The opening gambit played, it was the defenders' turn.  
"Kill that thing!" Ishiyama roared, raising his plasma rifle.  
Standing next to him, Woods opened up with the squad heavy plasma rifle. A rain of cerulean and bright green energy bolts blistered the air, striking the alien colossus and sending shards of black armour spinning away. The thing hissed in pain, and charged.  
Ricardo cursed, his heavy cannon useless at these ranges; the backblast from a grenade detonation would surely wipe them all out. He hastily dropped the cannon and pulled out his sidearm, wondering how in the world he was going to stop something that big with a tiny 9mm pistol.  
Captain Shelton had no time for such thoughts. Syrax was bearing down straight at him, but the courageous pilot stood his ground. The Browning Hi- Power bucked in his hands as he pulled the trigger as rapidly as he could. The magazine emptied just as grasping claws came at him, and Shelton threw himself aside with mere millimeters to spare.  
Seeing an opening, McGregor cut loose with his shotgun. The rest of his soldiers needed no urging, opening up alongside their sergeant, and pelted the alien with 15-guage buckshot.  
Suddenly, Syrax found himself in a world of pain.  
  
The fighting was almost down to hand-to-hand. The withering curtain of defensive fire put up by the SAS and X-Com soldiers was faltering as ammunition ran out, and a cluster of Chryssalids managed to get through at last.  
Corporal Dangerfield finished off her last magazine by discharging her heavy plasma literally into the face of one Chryssalid. The catastrophic heat from the detonating Elerium bullet instantly fused the muzzle of the heavy plasma shut, rendering it useless. Burned by the electromagnetic backwash, Abigail nonetheless gritted her teeth and soldiered on.  
A quartet of SAS soldiers turned their SA-80s on a charging Chryssalid, the concentrated fire shearing off bits and pieces from its exoskeleton. The monster stumbled, then fell, its exterior a patchwork of white goo over black silicon armour.  
A pair of the SAS troopers turned their attention to combat the enemy elsewhere, while the other pair ran forward to the downed Chryssalid. With the butts of their assault rifles, they laid into the alien beast, until its head was nothing but a gory ruin.  
Not too far away, a Chryssalid snapped its claws shut on Simon's plasma rifle just as he was pulling the trigger. The Elerium slug was already primed, and as the firing chamber was breached, the pulsating bullet core detonated. The explosion wiped out the marauding Chryssalid, eight more of its fellows, and a good chunk of masonry from the fallen Nelson's Column. Simon was picked up and hurled all of ten meters away, stunned and badly bruised, with second-degree burns on his face and hands – but his armour held even against the terrible blast, and he survived.  
Dashing to him, an SAS trooper got his arms around Simon's chest, and began dragging him away from the carnage.  
Elsewhere, Monique had run out of bullets, but had somehow found enough time to affix her bayonet to her XCR. Working alongside Drake, she clubbed and stabbed whatever he shot with his pistols. Her arms screamed with the effort, and the fight became a monotonous blur of up-swing, butt- stroke, slash, and thrust.  
The strategy worked well enough until she missed one. As Drake was forced to deal with other Chryssalids, the injured alien charged. Instinct made Monique thrust her weapon out in front of her, and the beast impaled itself.  
The Chryssalid still retained enough momentum to completely bowl Monique over. Pinned beneath its bulk, the medic was helpless as the deadly ovipositor shot out.  
  
The logical part of Syrax's mind told him that all was lost. He had underestimated the foe, and he was now paying the price for it. Xenothane would not be pleased with the loss of so many valuable troops, but if Syrax managed to destroy enough enemies, and return with some worthwhile intelligence, perhaps the vicious Patriarch would not be so tempted to remove his head from his shoulders.  
But that was only a tiny part of his overall consciousness.  
Every cell in his body screamed for vengeance, and Syrax was happy enough to silence the analytic part of his brain and indulge in his baser instincts.  
  
Drake jammed the muzzle of his P226 down Monique's mouth.  
He had seen Monique go down, and simply reacted. The former squad medic thrashed at the unwelcome intrusion, the hot metal scorching her cheeks from the inside, and the taste of cordite bitter on her tongue. Drake had not been gentle, either, and she could feel shards of her broken teeth grinding against the gun muzzle.  
The ovipositor struck the gun, but the dying Chryssalid discharged its hideous payload anyway.  
The Chryssalid larva flopped limply on to Monique's chest. Without the protective body and fluids of a host, exposed to the potent, oxygen- rich Earth atmosphere, the larva spasmed uncontrollably, and expired within seconds, oozing a thick, slimy paste.  
The big man pulled out his P226 in time to fire into the approaching mass of Chryssalids. Monique recovered her feet and spat out the fragments of her teeth, then retrieved her XCR and bayonet.  
She was about to say something uncomplimentary to Drake when the radio suddenly crackled to life.  
"Air strike ..."  
That was all they had time to hear before the scream of jet engines tore through even the cacophony of the charging aliens, and death rained from the sky.  
  
Many of the charging Chryssalids were simply too near friendly troops for Captain Avery to drop his bombs on to, so he opted for the next best option: half his flight was assigned to building demolitions with heavy bombs and rocket pod fire, while the other half would release their cluster bombs as close to the enemy as possible. The ground troops would have to take their chances as best as they could.  
Captain Avery opened the main communications channel and gave his orders.  
"Flight Commander Avery to all units. You have your designated targets. Fire at will."  
  
For such a deadly weapon, the CBU-87 Combined Effects Munitions, or CEM, was really a very innocuous device. A cylinder approximately 16 inches in diameter, measuring 92 inches in length, and painted with bright yellow stripes at either end, it was a dedicated anti-personnel round effective even against light armour.  
At the touch of the RAF pilots, sixteen such cylinders burst free of their mounting hardpoints and plummeted to the earth.  
A heavy beast tipping the scales at just under a thousand pounds, each bomb rapidly reached its optimal detonation range. FZU-39 proximity sensors embedded in each warhead marked this, and sent an electrical pulse to the internal SW-65 Tactical Munitions Dispenser, or TMD; this was what really triggered the opening of the bomblet casing.  
Based on the explosive Cyclotol, the shaped charge in the warhead duly exploded, rupturing the main bomb case and the surrounding zirconium ring, sending submunitions flying into the air, covering an area that measured about 200 meters by 400 meters.  
Each bomblet was encased in yet another scored steel case measuring 6 centimeters in diameter, and 20 centimeters in length, which, in turn, was designed to break into approximately 300 pre-formed in-grain fragments. With a total of 202 of these bomblets loaded into each dispenser, that meant that Trafalgar Square was quite easily saturated with white-hot, razor-sharp shrapnel.  
  
The first the ground troops knew that CBU-87s had been used was when several Chryssalids simply collapsed in a haze of fractured ebony silicon armour, bloody green mist, and the putrid white slime that served as their bodily repair mechanism.  
Others fell apart as countless tiny steel needles literally cut them into ribbons.  
Before anybody could react, the expanding cloud of steel spines reached the allied skirmish line, and men died, too.  
  
Monique had barely gotten back to her feet when Drake knocked her down again, then threw himself on top of her. Having proven his lightning reflexes before, the big man was the first to see the carnage being wrought around them, and also the first to understand just what was happening.  
With almost three hundred pounds of weight pressing down on top of her, the squad medic could hardly breathe. She was about to protest when she heard the high-pitched whine of shrapnel singing through the air, and the screams of those caught out in the open. Gulping in sudden realization, Monique buried her face in Drake's armoured chest and prayed for dear life.  
Moments later, the bombs released by the rest of Captain Avery's flight struck the National Gallery and its surrounding buildings, and absolute chaos reigned.  
  
Explosive impacts tore the National Gallery apart, the ancient masonry crumbling in the blink of an eye. An artificial dust storm engulfed Trafalgar Square, reducing visibility to zero and choking those still fighting. Shrapnel lanced through the air, striking hard enough to pierce even steel. At certain focal points, where the explosion blast waves met at naturally matching configurations, a phenomena quaintly known as 'constructive interference' took place – the impact from the compressed sound waves was magnified to such an extent, it literally crushed anything caught in these focal points into dust. And, of course, those in the buildings died. Those in Trafalgar Square itself at least had a fighting chance.  
The noise was so great that it was physically painful. Screaming to relieve the incredible pressure build-up, the earth-shattering man-made hurricane tore Monique from Drake's protective embrace and flung them around like rag dolls.  
The SAS trooper towing Corporal Simon to safety did not have XCA armour protecting him, and vanished in a crimson mist of decapitated body parts as shrapnel sliced into him. Still unconscious, Simon crashed to the ground, where rubble quickly piled up around him. The XCA armour saved him from being pulped outright, and despite the buffeting from the blast waves, Simon stayed exactly where he was. Alongside three SAS troopers, Abigail found herself backed up against a wall by seven advancing Chryssalids. They were far enough from the CBU-87 impacts that the shrapnel had relatively little effect on them. They were, however, standing near a blast wave convergence point. The constructive interference took the Chryssalids and turned them into a black paste, covered the soldiers in the disgusting mess, then swiped them clean through the wall against their backs. Their momentum did not abate until almost twenty meters later, when the SAS troopers had been crushed beyond recognition. Tough-as-nails Abigail retained enough presence of mind to go limp as she tumbled. Her armour protected her against the worst of the knocks as she was slammed around, and she finally fetched up against a scarred lamp-post. Badly stunned but otherwise miraculously unhurt, Abigail coughed twice to clear the dust from her throat, then got up on unsteady legs. Grabbing the lamp-post for support, she unholstered her sidearm with one hand, and ripped her bayonet from its sheath with the other. Shaking her head dazedly, Abigail nonetheless went hunting for more Chryssalids on wobbly legs. She got all of four steps before her body decided that it had endured enough for a day, and unconsciousness claimed her. Not too far away from this, Alison Wilkins and her new-found friend, Malcolm, ducked beneath an encroaching piece of reinforced concrete. They huddled there and tried to block out the screams of the dying, both human and alien. For the next few minutes, that was all that everyone could do.  
  
The squadron of Jaguars completed their bombing run, and Captain Avery had them swing around for a second look.  
It did not take long. A four lane motorway could be built through the ruins of Trafalgar Square, with room to spare.  
Captain Avery swallowed, sick to the very depths of his heart. He tried very hard not to think about all the lives he had just snuffed out. It would be a miracle if anything, or anyone, had survived down below.  
He spoke into the radio.  
"Mission accomplished. Returning to base."  
"Negative. Base reports two more incoming targets. Intercept and terminate."  
Surprised, for his flight was not armed for air-to-air combat, Captain Avery nonetheless listened as the radio operator reeled off a series of map co-ordinates. It was just on the very outskirts of London, the pilot realized.  
Switching over to his Mauser cannons, Captain Avery opened a broadcast channel to his flight group and relayed their new orders.  
  
The Trafalgar Square bombing had minimal effect in Leicester Square – mere shockwaves, just strong enough to rustle the leaves on what trees were left.  
In any case, the troopers going up against Syrax did not have time to appreciate just how thoroughly the Chryssalid invasion had been squashed. The giant proto-Patriarch was proving to be a most worthy opponent.  
Incandescent plasma splashed against his silicon exoskeleton, so that great, big lumps of half-melted armour trailed greasy streaks to the ground. Buckshot stung Syrax, and heavier XCR Duplex rounds punched small craters in his body.  
Ishiyama could see that it was going to take far more ordnance than what they were fielding to put down the alien fiend. He was wondering what it would take to destroy this enemy when his eyes settled on the heavy cannon Ricardo had dropped.  
  
The Jaguar strike group spotted the incoming UFOs with little trouble.  
They were, after all, engaged in a battle of their own, and practically ignored the incoming RAF fighters. The airspace between the two craft was alive with crimson and emerald plasma bolts, as the second UFO, quite obviously a pursuer of some sort, tried its best to shoot down the other craft.  
Surprised, Captain Avery nonetheless did not hesitate. His orders had been explicit and clear, and he was going to do his best to blow both targets into dust. Half his flight went after the second, larger UFO, while the other half centered on the smaller craft.  
Tracer rounds ripped through the open sky, the brilliant gold streaks a stark contrast to the alien plasma.  
The battle was joined.  
  
High up on the rooftops, Rattler Sniper Leo had his own problems.  
The blast-wave from the Skyranger-UFO collision had partially caved in the roof of the Odeon. Leo had dropped almost twelve feet straight into the remains of the theatrette directly underneath him. Somehow still retaining the grip on his rifle, the sniper found his entire lower torso buried beneath the rubble, facing the open sky where the walls had been destroyed.  
Coughing to clear his lungs of the dust, Leo tried moving his legs and discovered that he was well and truly immobilized. Desperate to join the fight against Syrax, Leo pushed futilely at the mountain of rock trapping him. All he succeeded at was dislodging a few of the smaller stones.  
Thankful that his armour had at least protected him from broken bones, the sniper was attempting to wriggle his way out when he saw the incoming UFOs, and Captain Avery's interception attempt.  
"You have got to be kidding me," Leo half-whispered to himself.  
First things first, though. He had to get free.  
Rattler Sniper Leo re-doubled his efforts to get free, as the fight in the sky appeared to be angling straight for Leicester Square.  
  
"Ricardo!"  
Ishiyama caught Ricardo's attention for a precious second, and tossed his plasma rifle at the heavy trooper. Suddenly all thumbs, Ricardo dropped his pistol and fumbled with the plasma rifle, and nearly dropped it. He leaned in too close to Syrax while attempting to retain his grip on the rifle, and nearly lost his head for his trouble.  
Fortunately, his sense of balance prevailed, and Ricardo rocked back on his heels, discharging the plasma rifle right into Syrax's torso.  
As the monster reeled from the impact, the Japanese Major dived for Ricardo's dropped heavy cannon. He scooped it up in one smooth motion, then prepared himself.  
"Hey!" Ishiyama shouted at the proto-Patriarch. "Hey! You! Tofu no kado ni atama wo botsukete shinji mai!" 


	15. The Battle Ends

**Chapter 15**

"_Oi_! _Kono kuso-ttare_!_ Shinjimae_!" In the heat of the moment, Ishiyama resorted to shouting at the ebony giant in his native Japanese. "_Bokutachi dake ni shite kure yo_!"

Syrax left off trying to bite the face off Angus McGregor, and wheeled to face the puny Japanese Major. He snarled as he recognized the bulky cannon that Ishiyama was clutching.

The Earthling must be possessed of little intelligence. Even a cradle-bound _rikt-tengar_ could see that the primitive explosive projector would do a proto-Patriarch little harm. What was the Earthling trying to do?

Unable to contain himself, Syrax laughed humourlessly and prepared to cut the human in half.

* * *

The monster opened its fanged maw and bellowed.

Seizing the moment, Ishiyama took two steps and pitched the heavy cannon into that glistening orifice.

Surprised at the unorthodox move, Syrax involuntarily reared back and brought his fangs down on the heavy cannon.

Nothing happened.

Ishiyama stared in dismay at the suddenly motionless alien.

There was a grinding noise as those shark-like teeth sliced into the weapon. Metal shrieked as Syrax literally chewed apart the heavy cannon. Shreds of twisted steel dribbled out of the side the alien maw, and before five seconds had passed, the proto-Patriarch contemptuously spat out the remnants of the weapon.

The huge beast trained an eye on Ishiyama. So did the rest of the astonished combatants. Their looks required no translation.

"Always worked in the movies," the Japanese Major shrugged to the world in general.

* * *

This was ridiculous, Captain Avery swore to himself. Without air-to-air missiles, how were they supposed to take down an enemy that far outclassed them in every way?

The cannon rounds that the 54th Squadron were blasting at the UFOs were doing little more than scratching their paint jobs. The larger, hexagonal UFO never ceased firing plasma at the smaller craft.

Strangely enough, the majority of plasma bolts detonated harmlessly several meters away from the smaller UFO.

Captain Avery did not bother analyzing the phenomena. He had his hands full trying to figure out a way to bring down both alien craft. His brain worked overtime as he pulled away from the battle temporarily, then spun into a tight loop and came back on the larger UFO's six.

What about the dumb-fire rocket pods? Could that take the place of the Mauser cannon?

Never one to think strictly inside the box, Captain Avery brought his rocket pods online and lined up the shot as best as he could under the circumstances. A stray rocket blasting into London was sure to cost plenty of lives.

* * *

The X-Com heavy cannon was a highly advanced form of the automatic grenade launcher. More commonly mounted on vehicles and firing 40mm explosive grenades, miniaturization of certain components had allowed X-Com scientists to make it a true man-portable weapon, albeit a very heavy one.

Like all such explosive grenades, ammunition for the heavy cannon was designed to detonate on impact. The grenade itself was really formed from two separate chemicals, the explosive proper, and the primer to the explosive. Either chemical is relatively inert on its own, but when mixed together and a bit of energy applied – usually the spark generated from the firing pin striking the grenade's percussion cap – the resultant concoction ignites and expands at an exponential rate, giving off a burst of heat and light that is grossly disproportionate to the volumes of chemicals involved.

This chemical reaction occurs in mere milliseconds, generating a very loud explosion that transforms the grenade's simple metal casing into a deadly hail of razor-sharp shrapnel.

In this case, the explosive and primer were released and mixed by virtue of Syrax's enthusiastic chewing. Without the necessary energy to ignite the reaction, though, this was all a waste of time.

However, nobody foresaw the effect of Syrax's acidic saliva on the chemicals.

There was no warning at all.

Just a small, blue flash that blazed into life and was extinguished before it fully registered on anyone's consciousness.

Then the explosion that blew the proto-Patriarch's maw off.

The shockwave slammed into the surprised soldiers surrounding Syrax, and bowled them off their feet. Bonded silicon armour did not serve very well as shrapnel, which was all very well for everyone involved; rather than exploding into lethal splinters, the silicon flash-melted in the intense heat and splattered everywhere in messy, disgusting chunks.

The mangled body of the proto-Patriarch simply collapsed in the middle of the street. Fluid, green alien blood fountained out of the monstrous creature and made streaky trails in the puddles of melted, greyish alien flesh.

The X-Com soldiers hauled themselves to their feet, staring in surprise at the dead proto-Patriarch. No-one was more surprised than Ishiyama himself.

"Looks like Hollywood got _something_ right, after all," Angus McGregor drawled, a slow grin dawning on his face. The tenseness of the moment past, they broke out all in helpless, relieved laughter for a few moments.

"Enough," Ishiyama said, trying to stifle his mirth. "Let us go and claim the first prize."

* * *

"Oh, bollocks!"

Captain Avery swore aloud. Incandescent plasma from the pursuing UFO was splashing down into London indiscriminately, causing bursts of flame where they impacted.

The death toll in the City must be hideous, the pilot shuddered.

He lined up the optical sights against the pursuing UFO, simply because it was bigger and presented a larger target profile. Whatever damage he might cause from errant rockets, it must surely be far less than the rain of plasma bolts.

Praying hard, Captain Avery pulled the trigger.

57mm rockets exploded from their holding pods and streaked towards the target.

* * *

Back in the ruins of the half-collapsed Odeon, Rattler Sniper Leo saw the rocket contrails as Captain Avery launched his last pounds of ordnance. To his trained eye, it seemed horribly obvious that any misses would obliterate the troopers still on the ground.

Leo abandoned all attempts at freeing himself and scrambled for his throat mike, praying that the fall had not damaged it.

"Ishiyama! Major! Take cover – NOW!"

* * *

On the ground, the troupe of battered X-Com and SAS veterans ran up to the downed UFO, still embedded in the remains of the building it had crashed into. Major Ishiyama was just about to take the first steps in when his receiver crackled to life and he caught snatches of Leo's panicked message.

Without a point of reference for the supposedly incoming threat, though, the Japanese Major was forced to make a decision – which may very well cost all of them their lives.

"In!" He shouted at the startled soldiers. "Get into the UFO! NOW!"

One of the very first things a soldier learns is that when an officer shouts, it is usually an overreaction. It was an extremely unfortunately ingrained response, as everyone stood around and gaped blankly at the wildly gesticulating Major.

A moment later, the canny Sergeant Angus caught on and discipline kicked in.

"What are you waiting for! Inside! NOW!"

The other thing a soldier learns quickly is that when a sergeant roars, he means business. Deadly, serious business.

The paralysis broke in an instant, and they piled into the broken UFO in a barely disciplined rabble.

* * *

Captain Avery screamed in horrified triumph, oblivious that it was being broadcasted to everyone on the communications network.

His desperate gamble had worked – sort of.

Through sheer dumb luck, eight of the 57mm FFAR dumbfire rockets smashed into the hexagonal pursuer. The impact was enough to knock the alien vessel off its course, so that it spun through the air lazily once.

The next pair of rockets struck its apparently tender 'underside', and must have hit something critical. There was a spectacular explosion as the part of the UFO's 'underside' ruptured. The alien craft went into an uncontrolled spiral just then, and winded up heading straight for the River Thames, not too far off.

At that kind of velocity, water is not the soft cushion one might imagine it to be. Instead, it reacts more like steel-reinforced concrete.

The UFO hit the water surface, the collision immediately making huge fractures in its superstructure. Like a crazy hexagonal wheel, it turned on its side and bounced into the air again before landing again.

This time, the force of the blow split the doomed vessel apart. Something else detonated deep within its innards, and it died a fiery death that was rapidly swallowed by the chill waters of the River Thames.

But Captain Avery had squeezed off his entire rocket complement. That left another fourteen rockets speeding towards the heart of London.

* * *

The interior of the downed UFO was, surprisingly, brightly illuminated by that eerie silvery glow that seemed to emanate from its metallic construction itself. The entrance led immediately opened up into a spacious chamber, filled with many pieces of broken apparatus that no-one could discern a use for. An exit beckoned to their left.

Obviously a cargo storage area, or perhaps for troop transport, Ricardo thought.

With the doors sundered behind them, the soldiers moved out to cover the only other exit to the chamber with professional expertise. A quick peek proved that the exit branched out into a left-and-right corridor, which sharply turned after only a few feet.

Tense now, the group broke up voluntarily into two, each sub-group taking one branch.

* * *

"OH SHIT!"

On the roof of the Odeon, the still-trapped Leo saw the small UFO come straight at him, chased by a multitude of rockets. Swallowing, he tried to bury himself farther into the rubble.

"Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be …" He started praying.

* * *

Captain Avery sensed, rather than saw, the destruction of the large, hexagonal UFO. His attention was fully focused on the smaller UFO now, as it sputtered and dipped in an uncertain flight, giving the impression of a mortally wounded animal. Amazingly, it retained enough agility to dodge each and every one of the remaining rockets that Captain Avery had launched.

His heart in his mouth, the flight commander saw his rockets speed on towards London.

* * *

The first of the 57mm FFAR rockets smashed into the 'back' of the Odeon. Not designed for deep penetration, the rocket immediately detonated, completing the devastating of the cinema multiplex. The rubble burying Leo shifted at this point, freeing him and spilling him down one level into the ground-level foyer.

Stunned but otherwise unhurt, Leo gave thanks for his survival. Any thoughts of searching for the rest of his pals who had been with him when the Odeon first got hit vanished as more rockets slammed into the surrounding buildings.

Leo threw himself to the ground, hands over his neck, and for the second time in less than five minutes, prayed for his life.

* * *

Captain Avery gasped as he saw the Odeon implode. Strangely enough, his thoughts veered to when he was only twelve, when he and Susie – his first girlfriend – had shared their first kiss in the Odeon.

_Guess I'll never do that with another girl there now_, he thought.

The damaged UFO was headed straight on a collision course with the one previously downed, and astonishingly enough, it _slowed_ just before they kissed. From this high up in the air, it looked like a pair of billiard balls making weak contact.

Before the smaller craft ever sagged to the ground, the last few rockets swooped in and detonated.

As flames wreathed both downed alien vessels and obscured them from view, Captain Avery almost cried from relief. Two birds downed with one stone.

"Mission accomplished. Returning to base."

With that, the Jaguar strike group turned smartly around for RAF Coltishall.

* * *

Groaning, Sergeant Angus McGregor hauled himself upright. He shook his jowls, then panned around for a look. The aftermath of the UFO collisions and rocket attack was not pretty; he could see where the hulls had impacted and fractured, and sparks from a non-existent electrical source had blackened certain areas. Perhaps the most vivid reminder that he was in an actual alien vessel was the simple fact that despite the abuse, the UFO's silvery metal walls still gleamed with its own inner light, casting the details of the wreckage into stark, naked contrast.

It made it all the easier to find everyone, of course. Wearily, Angus began pulling fallen chunks of metal and machinery off those he could find. Most had not survived. Hurting on the inside and outside, the SAS Sergeant took the identification tags of those who had passed on and slipped them into one pocket.

_It always hurts_, he cried inwardly, stopping before the limp body of one of the soldiers. _I remember Greg. He was only 22, loved to play footie, and was also a good shot at the pool table. Guess he won't ever be playing any of that anymore. _

Not too far away, Ricardo came back to consciousness, too. The XCA armour had more than proven its worth, and he pushed his way free to give Sergeant McGregor a hand.

That was when there was a terrible screeching of metal, from one of the fracture lines where the two UFOs had collided. The hull bent and buckled, then simply tore away very much like one would peel the top off a sardine can.

Stunned and horrified, the two soldiers dived for cover. The thought hit them both simultaneously.

_We're unarmed. _

The how was not important. But being defenceless against whatever horror might stride though the gaping tear literally paralyzed them with terror.

Their worst fears were realized a moment later as an ghostly figure in robes simply materialized in front of the shredded hull. Ricardo could sense an immense power of some sort playing over the alien. He swallowed, instinctively knowing that there was no hope if the alien decided to attack.

The toughened sergeant almost peed in his pants when other aliens appeared behind the robed one, including one of the giant green-skins that Ishiyama had encountered in the alien's underground bunker.

Whimpering in dread, Ricardo crab-crawled backwards on his hands and knees. His surprise was complete when the giant green-skin stepped forward, and extended its right hand with fingers splayed in a 'V'-shape.

Ricardo almost died of a heart attack when the monster hissed in thickly-accented but recognizable English.

"We come in peace. Live long, and prosper."


	16. London: Aftermath

**Chapter 16**

"They _what!_"

Orvax roared his displeasure. His eyes bulging with rage, the self-styled _Tel' Istar_ Overlord reached out and latched on to a steelgrain chair. Formed from the strangely tough fibres of the _dykaress_ plant, it was capable of taking a great deal of abuse.

Orvax ripped it apart in his bare hands.

Fangs bared, he snarled at the messenger. "How? Where? Why?"

The tiny Gelorian gulped, turning noticeably even more ashen. "They fled to Earth, Overlord …"

"I _know_ that! The Jumpgate captains will be most sorry for their laxity of duty, indeed, but how did they simply _vanish_!"

"We do not know, Overlord …"

Orvax gave voice to a final growl. "Then _find_ out. Do not return until you find me some answers, understand? Mind-scan, grav-scan, I don't care how you do it, but bring me answers!"

The Gelorian scuttled out with a hurried nod, terrified.

"Kalvar, you filthy Guardian … where are you hiding now?" Orvax frowned in a strange flash of insight. "Don't tell me the Earthlings actually took you in … ?"

* * *

It had been a disaster of epic proportions. London was in ruins, the alien secret was out, and, worst of all, at least from CINCXCOM's viewpoint, X-Com was exposed. The world was in chaos, and X-Com was right in the middle of it.

Newspapers around the world proclaimed the existence of highly confidential government agencies, alien marauders, and portrayed a general view of doom and gloom. Conspiracy theorists had a field day, claiming that since X-Com existed, there must be dozens of other government cover-ups.

But most astonishing of all was the video footage of the Chryssalid invasion. Amazingly enough, during the actual alien assault itself, there were brave souls who had risked all to venture out into the war-torn streets with cameras, capturing the horrific slaughter.

Those self-same souls were now millionaires, with the news corporations vying desperately for the videos. CNN had forked out over a quarter of a million dollars for a short, fifteen second clip of the Chryssalids tearing the heart out of the National Gallery. The rest of the video was taken from a very undignified viewpoint as the camera operator fled the National Gallery. Unsubstantiated rumours said that MSNBC had paid out an equally ridiculous amount of hard cash for an equally ridiculous short video.

In the end, BBC came out tops, and not just because London was their home turf. Showing true grit, more than one crew of BBC reporters had taken the initiative to professionally film the alien invasion. While the harsh electromagnetic discharges from the plasma guns wielded by either side disrupted any real-time transmissions, the impact of the video footage was in no way lessened by the time delay.

Faced with the devastation, centuries of history and irreplaceable works of art destroyed forever, the heart of London carved out in a single terror strike, the British Prime Minister resigned on the spot. The Treasurer took over as the acting Prime Minister, privately wondering if London would ever recover from this blow.

H.G. Wells never imagined that his book would mirror reality so well.

It had taken X-Com a solid fortnight, working around the clock, to methodically extricate whatever alien technology had been blasted across the cityscape. Fourteen days of close co-operation with the TA SAS and local police forces, who held off the rubber-neckers, prophets of doom, conspiracy theory proponents, and those hell-bent on causing trouble just for sake of causing trouble. By the time X-Com Recovery left, there were riots across the country, leaving dozens dead, and dozens more injured.

Strange though, that X-Com Recovery never did find the remains of the monstrous proto-Patriarch Ishiyama and his men had faced.

X-Com Recovery did not just take with them what alien technology they could find. They also took with them Privates Banning and Fraser in black body bags, who were crushed when the Odeon Cineplex collapsed. Abigail, Gwen, Dieter, and the other survivors were helped back to Base Avalon, aboard stretchers for some, and on crutches for others.

For their heroic efforts, Drake and Monique received their captain's pips, although Monique would spend the next few days at the dentists, getting fitted for dentures, thanks to the teeth Drake had broken. She did not complain, though. Dentures were better than being turned into a Chryssalid host.

X-Com had won many prizes this time round, and not just alien technology. Thanks to the unexpected – and unwanted – publicity, CINCXCOM suddenly had dozens of applicants to X-Com combat teams. How and where they had managed to lift his e-mail address from, CINCXOM would never know. He did not know whether to laugh or cry, at the outpouring of popular support and popular condemnation.

But the greatest prize were the peaceful aliens who had unexpected surrendered to them.

Trapped, dazed, and weapon-less in the UFO wreckage, Ricardo and Angus had thought that they were dead. Instead, the aliens had helped pull them from the debris. There were only three of them; it appeared that their 'landing' had incurred casualties, too.

"Burn them," the serpent alien had said. "They have come this far with honour and courage, and let them return to the cleansing fire of life. Burn them."

And so they had. X-Com Recovery had brought along the alien dead back to Base Avalon, where, in a dignified, solemn ceremony, the alien dead were consigned to the base incinerators. It was surprisingly touching to see the aliens bidding their comrades farewell.

The arrival of the aliens made Base Avalon an absolute madhouse, even worse than when the recovered alien technology had began to arrive by the truckload. Having seen first-hand just how lethal the oxygen-rich Earth atmosphere was to the aliens, technicians scrambled to build a vacuum-sealed containment chamber filled with a mix of argon and nitrogen. To their credit, they finished the chamber, complete with airlock, in just under three days. In the interim, the aliens wore scuba tanks filled with the argon/nitrogen mix. They were a strange sight, indeed, walking around with hefty tanks strapped to their backs.

They were moved into the alien containment centre in due course, along with a few items scrounged from the UFO wreckage. Chief amongst this was a slimy, pink mass that resembled an exposed human brain far too closely. It was a digestor, explained the serpent alien calmly. It was placed in a glass container along with a quantity of food, whereby it was stimulated to produce large quantities of a powerful organic acid, quickly reducing the food to its constituents. Its job done, the acid similarly broke down into carbon dioxide, nitrogen, and some amino acids.

Once the digestor was recovered, the resultant slurry was loaded into metallic capsules. These could be pressed against any part of the aliens' skin, where the slurry was absorbed directly into the aliens' bloodstreams. "More efficient than mastication and digestion," one of the aliens remarked. "The digestor is capable of breaking down practically any organic matter, but leaves non-organics unaffected. Most useful, indeed."

More surprises were in store when the serpent sidled up to one of the scientists and bared its fangs in a grin. "Do you have .. PineSol?" It asked, practically rubbing its hands together in glee.

"Well, yes, it's a cleaning solvent," the scientist replied, puzzled. "Here."

At which the three aliens proceeded to get … roaring drunk. There simply was no other way to describe it. They toasted their fallen comrades with tumblers full of lethal pine oil, and sang in a oddly harsh, yet pleasure, tongue. What would have killed a human merely gave the aliens' extraterrestrial metabolism a buzz.

In spite of all this, the aliens were treated with a great deal of suspicion, naturally. They were kept under constant armed guard, and were interviewed by the scientists on a one-to-one basis. Just how effective those arrangements really were were conclusively demonstrated by the emerald-skinned monster barely two days after their arrival.

The alien, who answered to the name of Tynovir, had simply marched out of the alien containment centre that day. "I'm coming!" He bellowed at the startled guards, and went straight for them.

A moment's hesitation later, and the air was filled with the sound of gunfire. Klaxons wailed as someone hit the panic button, summoning aid. Tynovir ignored the bullets bouncing off his hide, and the screaming sirens, and calmly crossed the twenty meters between himself and the terrified guards.

With one meaty hand, he grabbed their rifles clean out of their hands and broke them over his knee. As the rest of the combat team came skidding to a halt, heavy weapons raised and primed, Tynovir dropped the rifle bits and pieces to the ground and glared at them all, standing proud and tall and straight.

"We are here because we _choose_ to be here," he growled at them. "There is little you can do to stop us if we decide to leave."

Guns were lowered as the troopers glanced at each other uncertainly. Tynovir snorted, turned his back on them disdainfully, and walked right back into the alien containment centre. If nothing else, the big alien had earned everyone's respect.

Not that staying in the containment centre proved too much of a hassle for the aliens. On an inspection of what alien technology had been recovered from London, the serpent alien pounced on a few multicoloured globes with unbridled eagerness. Ignoring the guns trained on him, he hefted the globes and exclaimed happily. "Glo-globes! You managed to save these!"

With that, he proceeded to very enthusiastically hug one of the accompanying scientists. The girl's eyes bulged as the full effect of the alien body odour hit her, and she gagged, trying to stop herself from being squeezed to death and suffocated from the mildew-y scent. The already jittery guards fired warning shots in the air, which finally got through to the serpent. Rather sheepishly, he carefully put the globes down and raised his arms in the air.

"Glo-globes," Tynovir explained, when it was his turn to be interviewed. "They serve as our … entertainment."

"Really?" the interrogating scientist pursed his lips. "They look like lava lamps, don't they?"

The big alien laughed. "That's a good description, if primitive. That's essentially what they are: a coloured, organic liquid suspended in a clear, inorganic medium. But glo-globes are much more than that. We add a psychotropic, and a hallucinogen, and shake it up, like so …"

"It's a lava lamp." The scientist pointed out, a trifle impatiently.

"Not if you're psychic. The _Tel' Istar_ are all psychic to some degree or the other, and using those senses, we can see far, far more than a mere 'lava lamp'. To the _Tel' Istar_, it is like a 3-D Playstation game."

The scientist was geeky enough to smile at that.

Tynovir's resultant mix was brought before the still-abashed serpent, whose name turned out to be Byrak. One look at it, and he ooh-ed and aah-ed, and told the amused scientists to compliment Tynovir on his choice of colours and shapes.

When this got back to Tynovir, he simply folded his massive hands across his chest and leaned back in his chair, a hugely satisfied smile on his face. "I've still got the touch," he sighed contentedly. "You know, I was considered quite the artist back home. The pay of a councillor's personal aid wasn't all that fantastic, but this was a most lucrative sideline, I must admit."

Not all the interactions with the aliens was so pleasant. They were subjected to all sorts of tests, poked and prodded, and irradiated by X-ray and CAT scans, and so on. The scientists broke six hypodermic needles on Tynovir before they gave up trying to get a blood sample; nothing they had could penetrate his hide.

In fact, the massive green-skinned hulk showed an amazing anatomy. His skin was a unique polymer that was soft and pliable, even velvety, when gently touched, but instantly hardened to the toughness and resilience of steel when subjected to any impact. His 'eyes' may have been organic-looking, but was really part of a metallic shell that encased his entire head. DNA-type microchips were embedded in this metallic shell, with short probes that were hardwired into the alien's brain.

Examining Tynovir, it was impossible to imagine that he was anything but the product of a genetic engineering and cyborgtization process so advanced, there was no way it could be replicated with any modern Earth technology.

Behind his back, the scientists shuddered in secret revulsion. Mutant, they whispered. A deliberate mutant, created by the _Tel' Istar_. Forced evolution, forced mutation. _Muton_.

And the name stuck.

Even worse was the robed alien that was apparently their chief executive, or councillor, as Tynovir called him. When they first met Kalvar, the guards had nearly shot him when he 'spoke'. His voice, rather than being physical in nature, echoed in everybody's heads. As it was, Byrak and Tynovir had to step in to stop the slaughter of their councillor. A gradual understanding was eventually reached, when they realized that Kalvar literally had no voice.

When he discarded his robes for them, the scientists finally appreciated why Kalvar was forced to use his mental voice.

The Deltarian, as his race was known, was emaciated beyond belief. Kalvar was literally skin and bones, held together by the raw force of his will. The Deltarians were advanced psychics, having progressed so far up the evolutionary ladder that they had surpassed the need for a body, or its bodily functions. It was, in fact, Kalvar said, the Deltarian ideal to discard their rough, physical bodies and exist purely as a thought form. Such an evolution had already begun, with the Deltarians reproducing asexually through spores, very much like fungi.

While they were still on the topic of alien physiology, the scientist ventured to ask, "What about the insects? The Chryssalids?"

Kalvar pondered the term for a moment. "Ah, the Chryssalids, the Antiluvians," he 'said'. "Genetically enhanced from their original, arachnid form, given unmatched speed. Their carapace is a little brittle, but that is compensated with their self-healing ability. It makes them superb _Tel' Istar_ shock troops, usually sent in to soften up the opposition from the inside first."

"Wait a minute. You said, to 'soften up the opposition' from the _inside_?"

"Yes. Why?"

The scientist was silent for a moment as the deadly reality sunk in. "Get CINCXCOM on the line right now!"

* * *

The trip from the Mars outpost to Earth was short. Malius sat at the controls of the tiny one-man _Flare_-class scoutship with an ease borne of familiarity. He eased into the atmosphere with nary a bump, the gravitic stabilizers compensating for the bumpy ride as the ship moved in from the vacuum of space.

_Flare­_-class scoutships were unarmed, but that did not trouble Malius. The ships were designed to secrete a unique, organic null-matrix upon activation. The null-matrix was capable of either reflecting or absorbing any sort of electromagnetic emission. This rendered it practically invisible to sensors. Thusly, the _Flare_-class scoutships could bypass any harm.

Malius did so now, once he was past the fiery burn of re-entry into Earth's atmosphere. He could not see anything, but the outside of the craft darkened as the null-matrix rapidly covered the ship hull. The black silhouette zipped across the sky, its graviton engine carrying it about in near-silence.

The Gelorian checked the co-ordinates provided to him. Yes, this was it. An area of … blank ocean almost two hundred square miles across? Malius mentally shrugged. He was paid to carry out orders, not question them.

Practiced hands danced across the scanner controls. Mind-scan, to detect the thought waves of sentient creatures. Grav-scan, to detect the almost imperceptible dips in gravity wave intensity as they washed around objects of significant mass. And a myriad of other scans, to measure temperature, motion, and other things.

The ambient tropical heat was playing havoc with his thermal imaging. Malius dialled the sensitivity down a few notches, bringing things back in line. There, the heat signatures of several huge, swimming mammals. Otherwise, nothing.

First pass, no results. Malius did not worry. The first round was merely to 'teach' the sensors the layout of the land, little more. The second and third passes was where things tended to get more interesting.

With a beep, the sensor panel told Malius that the topographical mapping had been completed. The Gelorian halted the craft for a moment, as he pondered the sensor read-outs. Scouting was as much an art as it was a science. Regardless of how advanced the technology, it simply was too inefficient to scan huge tracts of land to locate anything interesting. Instead, the best scout work depended on educated guesses.

Not that this was proving any challenge. There was only a single chain of tiny islands in the target area. Malius winged his way there, keeping close to the ocean surface. The air displaced by the scoutship as it moved along caused a wake in the water, giving any careful observer the suspicion that something was not just right. Moreover, the scoutship was blacker than black, and in the night sky, that caused it to stand out almost as clearly as if it were daylight.

Malius skimmed his craft close to the island chain, then pulled back and dropped his velocity to something approaching that of a man at a fast sprint. He throttled back the sensor power, not wanting any tell-tale energy spikes to give away his position. Patiently, carefully, Malius proceeded to meticulously scan each and every island that showed up on his topographical display.

They were laughably easy to find.

The mind-scan console lit up with a dozen alerts, followed rapidly by the grav-scan. A moment later, motion detectors registered movement. Malius smiled and reached for the transmission orb, which would send all this data back to the Mars outpost in just the space of a few heartbeats.

A klaxon blared then, startling Malius. As he cast his gaze about in sudden confusion, the proximity alarm went off. He barely had time to register that before something slammed into his tiny craft, then a second, and third impact. The alarm warbled off, the ship listed badly, and Malius was thrown against a bulkhead. The ground came up hard to meet him, and suddenly, all was blackness.

* * *

"Got him?" Ricardo asked, removing his hands from his ears.

Drake nodded. "Think so."

He tossed the spent Stinger missile launch tube aside, where it landed in the wet sand with a dull _thud_. Beside him, newly-promoted Corporal Gwen Fox and Sergeant Abigail left their own empty missile tubes in the sand.

Ishiyama, standing next to Ricardo, lowered his low-light binoculars and nodded an acknowledgement at them all. "That is a confirmed kill."

The squad unslung their XCRs and jogged towards the crash site. The salvo of three Stingers had torn apart one side, and it had landed badly on one side, half-in, half-out of the surf. This was a small UFO, more conical than circular. Instead of the bright, silvery sheen of the other UFOs they had encountered, this one was covered in some sort of slimy, black mucus.

"Yuck," Ricardo muttered to himself in disgust after he had gingerly dipped a finger into it. He surreptitiously wiped it against his combat fatigues.

Ishiyama and Drake had kicked aside the debris from the UFO's ripped side, and led the way in with their rifles. They found a single grey one slumped over a broken console, its hand on a dimly glowing orb. Greenish ichor stained the interior of the blasted UFO, but Drake took no chances. He yanked out his bayonet and plunged its razor-sharp tip into the alien's distended skull several times.

Noting the others' distasteful frowns, Drake shrugged. "Cheaper than a couple of XCR rounds." He wiped the bayonet clean and slipped it back into its sheath on his combat harness.

"Looks like one of those things we found at that alien desert outpost," Ishiyama commented, prying loose the orb from the alien's dead fingers.

"That was a long time ago," Ricardo grunted as he kicked around inside the interior of the downed UFO. "Doesn't look like there's a lot of stuff left."

"The Colonel was right. About the alien retaliation, I mean."

"Lucky guess."

Ishiyama laughed. "You were complaining about getting patrol duty ten minutes ago!"

Amidst the good-natured ribbing, the group trotted home, the dimly glowing orb finally fading into darkness.

* * *

"This?" Tynovir tapped the inert sphere with one huge finger. "It is a communications orb. It is essentially a psionic amplifier. A psychic individual simply holds it, like so, and sends his thoughts, data, or whatever he wishes, through it. It is pre-programmed with a fixed set of recipients, and is very short-range. We usually install repeaters to re-amplify the signal every few light-years. Larger units project much more powerful signals that require less repeating."

"We found one sometime ago, at an outpost."

"You would have. They're installed at every outpost, and every ship. Ease of communication and all that."

"I see. What about this device here?"

"Ah, that is …"

And so the interviews went on.

* * *

Fate plays cruel tricks on us all, alien or human.

Malius was a faithful _Tel' Istar_, determined to carry out the missions assigned to him with his best effort. He was a highly regarded scout in his Overseer's force, respected, vigilant in his duty, and liked by those who knew him.

A life now cut short by the equally vigilant Colonel Wolf, who had suspected that the suddenness of the London attack was little more than a ruse by the alien commander to draw X-Com out into the open. He had ordered heavily armed patrols around the islands, with orders to call in the minute they saw any UFO activity.

Even so, it had been sheer luck that the patrol had seen the stealthed scoutship. Even luckier that Major Ishiyama had made to call to attempt ground-to-air interception using Stinger missiles, seeing that it was a tiny UFO, instead of retreating back into Base Avalon and reporting things as per standing orders.

Luckiest of all, Malius's ship had been destroyed just as he had struck the communications orb. The data it transmitted was incomplete, holding only the co-ordinates of Base Avalon. It would be useless without a frame of context.

The transmission was well within range of the nearest signal repeater. But for a roll of the cosmic dice, it would have been picked up and re-transmitted back to the Mars outpost, where attentive signal analysts would have quickly determined that Malius would not have transmitted such specific co-ordinates on a whim, and would have ordered a full-scale investigation.

But alas for the _Tel' Istar_, the signal repeater in question was faulty. A tiny micro-meteor had lodged in between its transmission vanes, hopelessly garbling any messages it was trying to send. The fault would not be noticed for another two weeks, and another six before someone got around to repairing it.

The dice had not been favourable towards the _Tel' Istar_. So many small things going wrong at the same time – could there really be a God, watching over His children on Earth?

Blissfully unaware of the psychic pulse, the _Tel' Istar_ refugees entertained their human captors with insights into _Tel' Istar_ technology, society, and life in general.

Just as blissfully unaware, the signal analyst who received the mangled message disgustedly deleted it, putting it down to a warping due to cosmic radiation or a solar flare.

And blissfully unaware in its non-sentience, the psychic pulse lanced down into the depths of the ocean. Unimpeded by the laws of physics as Man knew it, it cut down into the deepest point on Earth, the Marinas Trench, well over 10,000 meters deep.

First visited by Jacques Piccard and Don Walsh in 1960, in the primitive submersible _Trieste_, it was a brief glimpse into the world literally at the bottom of the Earth. Even at such depths, the men saw life – in their case, a flatfish skimming the sea floor. However, with no camera then, the images have been lost to posterity.

The only other craft to reach the Challenger Deep, the deepest part of the Marinas Trench, was the un-manned Japanese submersible _Kaiko_, in 1995.

It is now understood that only in the deepest parts of the Marinas Trench, one can catch a brief peek into the interactions at the core of the Earth, for here, the lithosphere – the outer, rigid shell of Earth's core – is recycled.

Powerful forces, called subduction, force tectonic plates to dive beneath one another, deep into the Earth's interior. This forces raw material from the seafloor deep into the Earth's core, and displaces an equal amount of the molten core. From this exchange are birthed mud-oozing and gas-seeping mud volcanoes, rising from the ocean floor like Gaia's grasping fingers.

Quaintly named 'subduction factories', these areas of subduction interaction form entire biological communities centred around the mud-volcanoes. Tube worms, plankton, and myriad other organisms live and die in these magical communities, without once knowing the warm of the sun.

But there was one area of the Challenger Deep where an uneasy equilibrium had been forced, where the area was relatively stable, and there were less mud-volcanoes and tectonic plate movements than one might reasonably expect.

A shadow, looming and vast and radiating a quiet malevolence, lay quiescent there. Were there light, one would have seen arching towers and bridges and immensely tall buildings, once formed from silvery metal, now crusted with the detritus of the ocean.

The psychic pulse swept ever downwards, losing strength and cohesiveness as the watery medium leeched energy from it. But it eventually pierced the towers and bridges of this once-proud edifice.

For thousands, if not millions, of years, the things within the edifice had lain asleep in dark catacombs and darker sarcophagi, in complete, utter darkness. As the pulse struck, a faint blue glow lit in the gloom. Long-dead, arcane machinery, revived unexpectedly by this … summons.

The ghosts in the machines roused themselves, the dying psychic wave form absorbed effortlessly by their insubstantial bodies. The message was incomplete, but there were co-ordinates. A most specific location. The spirits were pleased. At long last, here was work to be done.

But there was no need to rouse everyone. No, just a small fraction of the full power it could bring to bear. A probing finger, to see what could be seen. Perhaps they would bring back interesting news. Perhaps they would bring back none. Or perhaps they would not return at all.

No matter.

They had waited aeons for this. They could wait a little while longer.

The machine spirits stretched out invisible tendrils, awakening ancient forges. In the watery darkness, deafening clangs heralded the opening of the Ark of Life. Eldritch blood flooded the veins of slumbering minions, bringing them back to life, bringing them back from millennia of hibernation.

Soon. The darkness would engulf both land and sea. The sentient city laughed humourlessly to itself, and slowly sank back into wicked dreams of blood and conquest.


	17. The Experiment

**Chapter 17**

"These weapons you have," Tynovir rumbled, examining the heavy plasma he had picked up. "You have no idea how they really work, do you?"

The scientists looked at each other uncertainly.

"Your faces are answer enough." The alien pointed at the welded on iron sights and the attached laser scopes. "These are un-necessary if you are a true _Tel' Istar_ soldier."

Tynovir hefted the heavy plasma so that it pointed straight up at the ceiling. "You will need an acquirer to interface properly with the weapon."

With that, something came alive in the heavy plasma. There was an audible click, and the weapon started humming. The Balorian turned the weapon around in his hands and examined it closer. "Good. At least you have figured out the safety. This weapon is now live."

There was another click, and the heavy plasma went silent. Tynovir set the weapon down gently.

"Each _Tel' Istar_ soldier has a bio-matrix implanted. It is a semi-sentient symbiont, that bonds with its host and allows the attachment of other, more sophisticated implants, of which the acquirer is one."

"How?"

"The symbiont must reach a certain size, and achieve a certain … we shall call it 'psychic resonance', with its host. Once these conditions are met, we usually inject a morph into the bio-matrix. This forces the symbiont to grow the required attachment in a matter of minutes. The symbiont can only support a few morphs at any given time, though."

"Are there any side-effects?"

"Of course. Occasionally, the symbiont rejects its host."

"What happens then?"

"Such a situation is usually fatal to both host and symbiont."

"Can you perform this implantation on any living creature?"

"Yes. The bio-matrix is completely adaptable to its host. But we do require special equipment and chemicals, none of which you have available at this facility."

"Is that so? Follow me, please."

"… you humans astound me at times. A fully functional examination room! How …?"

"One of the many prizes we captured when we took that outpost in the desert."

"Ah, yes, of course."

"So could you …?"

"If you wish. But it might prove dangerous …"

"Eating is dangerous. Sleeping is dangerous. Is this as dangerous as stepping in front of a moving bus? I doubt that."

"Very well, then. Is there somebody who …"

The scientist wordlessly gestured.

Colonel Wolf stepped forward from the shadows. "I'm out of action at the moment," he grinned. "So you might as well use me."

* * *

The operation was to be conducted in the recovered alien examination room. The three aliens were present together for the first time, outside of the alien containment centre. Presiding over the entire process was Doctor McNeilly, a heavily armed Team Rattler, and dozens of curious scientists.

"Let's do this." Doctor McNeilly nodded at Byrak.

The Colonel was strapped face-down on the examination table, exposing his naked back. Byrak lifted a container full of some gel-like substance, looking innocuously like bright blue marmalade. "This is going to be cold," he remarked to nobody in particular, then started slopping it on to Wolf's back unceremoniously.

Ignoring the startled gasps from Wolf, Byrak set the container aside and started shaping the gel and aligning it to the Colonel's spine. When it was done, Wolf looked like he had a translucent, blue second spine sitting on top of his usual one.

"Is that it?" Wolf asked, his voice slightly muffled from his posture. "I don't feel …"

He hissed suddenly, then roared in agony.

Wide-eyed, Dr. McNeilly stumbled away as Team Rattler brought their weapons up.

"No, no," Byrak said, unperturbed. "That is normal. The symbiont is beginning the integration process."

It certainly did not look that way. The bio-matrix began pulsating with eerie life. There was a sucking sound. Wolf's eyes bulged with pain, and he screamed again, twisting painfully from side to side. Tynovir lunged forward and held the Colonel down mercilessly.

"Observe," Byrak lectured. "The symbiont is working its way into the volunteer's body, though the pores of the skin. Once there … ah, there it goes!"

With a thoroughly disgusting _slurp_, the bio-matrix suddenly vanished. The Colonel cut himself off mid-scream, realizing that it no longer hurt. Tynovir let him up, and Wolf sat up. With a hand from the Balorian, he staggered to his feet.

"I don't feel any different." Wolf confessed.

"You shouldn't." Byrak told him. "The symbiont is now moulding itself to your spine, extending its interface tendrils throughout your body. You won't feel a thing, you'll be able to function as normal."

"Yes, but couldn't you make the initial process a little less painful?" Wolf said, sourly.

The alien's blank expressions told him all he needed to know.

"Alright, folks, enough gawking," the Colonel told everyone brusquely. "Let's get back to work."

They all started filing out of the room, Wolf amongst them, before he became aware of something.

"Byrak," a startled Wolf exclaimed. "I … I'm not hurt anymore! I mean, I know I've got broken ribs, and I'm bruised inside, but there's no pain anymore!"

"Oh, that's because the bio-matrix has finished coating your internal organs, so they're more protected, more cushioned. Amazing, you humans, it's been barely two minutes, and it's already integrated that far. Doesn't normally happen this quick, you know."

They poked and prodded Wolf a bit more, then Byrak pronounced, "You're almost ready for morphing, Colonel. We'll come back tomorrow, where we'll stick you with this and you'll get your psi-node, mindlink, acquirer, and nanite repair units."

'This' was a _massive_ needle.

Wolf stared at the thing. "I don't think I've ever seen such a big needle, Byrak."

"Needle? What needle?" Byrak snorted. "That goes up your behind."

* * *

Kark was not happy. His scout had vanished. It was not unusual – space was a dangerous place, with treacherous solar winds, strange tides and eddies of particles, sensor-scrambling electromagnetic discharges, lethal hails of micro-meteorites … the list went on and on.

Still …

Furthermore, he had sent Malius to a very specific location.

There could only be one conclusion: he had come to harm. Which meant that Malius had found what he was seeking. What Kark was seeking.

That left him with only one solution.

"Muster another four scouts." Kark ordered his subordinates via mindlink. "Make them _Starflight_-class scouts. I want something with a bit more survivability. Throw in a couple of the newer _Sunrider_-class ones if you can spare them. Same co-ordinates as before."

Kark ignored the duty officer's acknowledgement. He was already pondering his next move.

* * *

Twenty-four hours later, the same coterie was gathered again in the examination room at Base Avalon. It was with a great deal of amusement and sympathetic winces that everyone bore witness to the morphs being injected into Colonel Wolf.

When it was over, it left Wolf groaning on the table, shaking from the indignity of it all. "I am _not_ doing that again. Anyone tells me otherwise, I'm going to _kill_ him."

Ignoring him, Byrak started lecturing again. "The bio-matrix has matured enough, meaning that it has extended its interface tendrils throughout the Colonel's body, sheathing his internal organs right up to his extremities. In essence, it is now part of his central nervous system.

"The function of the symbiont is two-fold. Firstly, and most importantly, it increases the ballistic resilience of its host, making him a little bit harder to kill."

"No need for that," somebody shouted from the back of the room. "He's already too stubborn to die!"

Laughter ensued as Wolf folded his arms and _harrumphed_. "OK, Drake, you're pulling extra duties for that."

More howls and laughter as Drake groaned.

Byrak patiently waited for the commotion to die down before continuing. "Secondly, the bio-matrix is capable of morphing certain interface tendrils into more sophisticated implants. Every _Tel' Istar_ soldier comes 'ready-made' with an acquirer, psi-node, and mindlink.

"You already know what the acquirer can do. It allows full interfacing with a plasma weapon, providing targeting information, virtual cross-hairs, and up to five times zoom magnification for a snipe shot.

"The mindlink is like a transceiver built into your skull. It will automatically receive any other mindlink broadcast, or it can be tuned to the 'frequency' that your fellow soldiers are using.

"The psi-node is bit more complicated. It is really a low-level psionic booster that lets you use the mindlink if you are a non-psionic capable individual. Which humans are classified as, by the way."

"Thanks." Wolf said dryly.

"No need to feel slighted, Colonel. The psi-node is what makes the _Tel' Istar_ psionic. Only the Deltarians and Gelorians are a true, psionic people. In order to match their psionic powers, everybody else would need to use a psionic amplifier."

"And what is that?" One of the scientists wanted to know.

"A theoretical device. It is essentially a high-powered version of the psi-node, but nobody has ever managed to build one. Either it doesn't interface right, or the power projected is too low to do anything. Unfortunately, with the _Tel' Istar_-Earth war, it's been shelved for many years."

"So what other alternatives are there?"

"Well … I don't know. Nothing else has ever been tried."

* * *

"Ho, Max, how you be doing?"

"Chillin', bro," came the reply.

Max walked to the hulking Negro, a grin on his face. Charles Dumont was six and a half feet tall, all of it muscle. His security guard uniform barely fit him, bulging in all the right places. Charles was the friendliest, most congenial person Max knew. His face was ill-accustomed to anything other than a smile, and privately, his colleagues all wondered how Charles had ever become a security guard.

Charles Dumont had migrated to Australia from the USA, preferring the relative warmth of the Australian weather to the bitterly cold New York winds. He had landed a job quickly with a local security firm, policing office blocks on the graveyard shift.

Right now, Charles and Max were walking their beat along a small block of offices around the junction of Surrey Hills and Chinatown, in the greater Sydney area. Although it was mid-spring, there was a distinct bite in the air.

As Max walked towards Charles to shake his hand, a piercing clarion call resounded in his mind. Max was slightly thrown off, for although the call was not unexpected, the timing of it was. He stumbled once before grabbing on to Charles and righting himself.

"You all right, bro?" A concerned Charles asked.

Max shook his head. Yes, after, so long, four years in a dead-end job, he could finally carry out the task for which he had been bred for. "Yeah, yeah, sorry, tripped."

"Uh-huh. Whatever you say, bro."

The two men shook hands, then started off on patrol. Australian security firms were barred from carrying firearms, but they did have stout truncheons and powerful torches. The patrol was uneventful, boring, even, and eventually they settled into the small cubicle that was their base of operations. Their next patrol was due in another thirty minutes.

Max reached over and poured them both cups of coffee. While Charles was busy stretching, his back turned, Max quietly slipped a couple of pills into the hot coffee. A few sips and ten minutes later, Charles had sprawled out full length on the floor, unconscious.

Max did not even spare his partner a glance. He knew just exactly what was required of him. Filled with purpose, Max grabbed the bunch of keys hanging at his belt, sorting through it quickly for the one he wanted.

Walking unhurriedly through the deserted corridors, Max turned corners with the ease of long familiarity. Stopping before a door, he unlocked it and slipped in. The room was a typical office set-up common the world over, the type with chairs, desks, and desktop computers.

Max sat down a particular computer and switched it on. As it booted up, he inserted a Linux boot disk into the CD-ROM drive tray. This would let him by-pass any authentication from the primary operating system installed to the computer's hard drive. The tap of a key, and the cheerful, bright blue interface of the Knoppix Linux operating system greeted him.

The set-up was virtual, a secondary operating system that by-passed the original Windows installation on the desktop. Normally, such a set-up did not give a user the ability read the hard drive on the primary operating system, but Max quickly set that straight. He brought up the command-line interface, his fingers whizzing across the keyboard. Anyone watching would have been amazed, for Max was typing at speeds that no human could match.

The right commands executed, and Knoppix interfaced neatly with the computer's hard drive. Although it was formatted for Windows, Knoppix was quite capable of reading and writing from it. Max was not exactly sure that he needed to use the hard drive, but left that capability intact 'just in case'.

Unfortunately, the data Max wanted was nowhere in the desktop's hard drive, nor was it even in the network. What Max wanted out of the computer was simply its network connection. Rather than using the Internet from his home, hiding out in this office block would serve to help cover his tracks if the authorities ever got around to hunting him down. With access to the Internet now secured, he was free to carry out the orders he had received.

The next step was to assault the target. In this case, Max wanted the Australian Tax Office's mainframe. The ATO had its own website, and hence, its own Internet address. Humming his favourite tune, Max opened up Nmap; this was a port scanner, which would tell Max what possible inroads there were into the ATO network.

To minimize his chances of detection, Max had Nmap 'play nice'. This meant that the program would only send out limited numbers of probes every few seconds. Not that it really mattered, since the ATO received hundreds, if not thousands, of port scans every hour, all from budding hackers trying make their mark. Max's own scans would probably get lost in the jumble.

Nmap was done in seven minutes flat. It told Max what he already knew, that the ATO website was pretty well-secured, and that most casual hackers would just bounce off its hardened exterior. Only web access was allowed to and from the ATO website. Undeterred, Max called up another program.

This one was called Nessus. It was a vulnerability scanner, software that could scan a computer for any potential weaknesses that could be exploited. Max entered the ATO website as a target, and set the program loose.

It took an even shorter time to complete Nessus than Nmap. It came back in five minutes and told Max that the ATO website was running an encrypted channel for web traffic, and that it was running a version older than what one might expect from a government agency.

That made things very easy for Max. He fired up the Knoppix Internet browser, called Konqueror, and started searching through some popular websites to find programs suitable for attacking the ATO website. He was looking for a very specific piece of code, and it took some doing before he found the exploit that might do the job.

Max threw it against the ATO website just to see what would happen. Not surprisingly, the exploit did not even produce a peep. Most hackers who released such code on the Internet intentionally crippled their exploits, following the mentality that 'if one can't get it to work, then one really shouldn't be playing with it'.

Opening up the exploit code in a text editor, Max eyeballed the code for all of twenty seconds before he found the deliberate program flaw. It was a simple thing, two separate variables joined together instead of being separated with a comma. Max snorted, fixed the bug, then went back to the ATO website.

Confident that the exploit would now work, Max activated Netcat, a communications program that would receive any output generated by the exploit. In this case, the exploit was designed to throw back a reverse shell; this meant that if it succeeded, the exploit would allow Max to type in commands as if he were sitting right in front of the target.

With everything in readiness, Max finally unleashed his debugged exploit on the ATO website. The exploit was designed to take advantage of certain design weaknesses in the web traffic encryption. The encryption algorithm worked by taking text blocks of fixed sizes, turning them into equivalent sized chunks of encrypted messages. It depended on a secret encryption key to do this. The recipient, on the other hand, required the same secret key to decrypt any received messages.

Encryption is the implementation of a mathematical concept. An attacker tries to circumvent this mathematical concept, or to reverse its implementation. The traditional defense is to make this mathematically infeasible, a quaint way of saying that in order to protect the encrypted data, the encryption algorithm modifies the mathematical concept so that it takes millions of years to break instead of a few minutes.

Unfortunately for the ATO, their version of the encryption algorithm, known as the secure sockets layer, or SSL, was only secure most of the time. This meant that in every one in ten blocks, the SSL mathematical calculations were slightly off, reducing the time taken to crack an encrypted message by a factor of twenty.

Max's exploit found these weakened blocks. It ran a list of well-known SSL decryption keys against these, comparing which ones worked and which ones did not. In twelve minutes, it had broken eight blocks, and gathered enough information to inject a chunk of reverse shell code into the stream of encrypted data without interrupting it.

On the server end, the ATO website was processing the data it received from Max. The data was normal HTTP traffic, nothing unusual. Then it hit the chunk of junk code preceding the reverse shell code. The website's SSL processing software stuttered, suddenly confronted with something outside its capability to handle. As it struggled to decipher the weird code it was receiving, it kept on stacking any received data into its memory banks.

Every program requires an allotment of memory to work. In a big machine like the ATO webserver, programs were usually allocated their own memory spaces. These memory spaces were contiguous, lying side-by-side, like discrete Lego blocks laid end-to-end, so that different programs might claim separate memory spaces at any time to function.

The SSL processing software was massive enough not to just claim one such memory space, but four. The weird junk coming in from Max's exploit forced the software to rapidly fill up its memory spaces. Just when the software was about to give up and shut down due to the huge load, the reverse shell code arrived.

The effect was catastrophic. With its memory banks completely filled, the software did not have any space left to allocate the reverse shell code. In desperation, confused and overmatched, the software simply appended the reverse shell code to the last bits of junk it had received. This put the reverse shell code outside the boundaries of the memory banks of the SSL processing software.

Whoever had wrote the code had known exactly what he was doing. The reverse shell code fell precisely into the memory banks allocated to the webserver's central processing unit. Startled by the unexpected instructions showing up so suddenly in its processing queue, the webserver CPU nonetheless went ahead and executed the reverse shell code. It could not do otherwise, since it had never been programmed to do anything otherwise.

Having been executed, the reverse shell code went into action right away. Firstly, it compiled a command shell, an interface by which a user could talk directly to the operating system. This got wrapped in a neat package and was delivered to Max, sitting far, far away from the ATO offices.

Next, the exploit hurried back to the SSL encryption program. It immediately hijacked the program, the electronic equivalent of clubbing someone over their head to steal their wallet. The website code was ignorant of this, having been programmed only to use SSL encryption, and not really caring if it really was the legit program or an impostor doing the work. It continued sending network traffic happily to the exploit code, which had now taken over the functions of the SSL encryption program, albeit temporarily.

Back at his terminal in the nameless office block, Max smiled mirthlessly as Netcat got hold of the reverse shell coming back from the ATO website. It came up on-screen, and, with his exploit firmly in control of the SSL encryption, Max could only lose his connection if he choose to terminate it, or if somebody actually shut down the server in its entirety.

Content, Max started looking for a way into the ATO internal network proper. The ATO webserver was almost certainly sited in a demilitarized zone somewhere; this was a segment of the ATO network which was publicly accessible, but firewalled off from the rest of the network.

Also stuck on the DMZ, next to the webserver, would be the ATO mail and DNS servers. The former was used to process incoming and outgoing e-mail, while the latter was used to hold an electronic 'roadmap' of the ATO network. First stop, the ATO mail server.

To compromise the mail server, Max was going to need another exploit. This one was much easier to find the SSL cracker, since the ATO was using a rather popular, if vulnerable, e-mailer. The Sendmail program was widely used the world over, but it was historically vulnerable to a great many published exploits. A quick Nmap of the mail server revealed that the ATO had been a bit slack, not keeping up-to-date with the latest versions of Sendmail.

A visit to a few more websites netted Max more than a few Sendmail exploits. Picking a few likely ones, he quickly patched some crippled exploits, and fired them against the mail server. Sendmail reacted as expected, collapsing limply under the assault. Max got another reverse shell without too much trouble.

The next step was to break into the DNS server. Nmap and Nessus came out again, and Max hit the DNS server with everything the programs could muster. Surprisingly enough, Nmap returned with a notice that a web administrator's port was open on the DNS server. This would be used by the ATO's system administrator to log into the DNS server via a HTTP interface.

Life just got so much easier for Max. From the mail server, he activated the Internet browser. Pointing it at the DNS server and specifying a port, the browser presented Max with a log-in screen, demanding a user-id and password.

Max decided to try a few common user-ids and passwords. The system kicked him out several times, before he gave up and broke out his favourite HTTP password cracker. He copied the address shown on the browser into the cracker, then set it to work.

This was going to take a while, depending on the complexity of the password. Max stretched, then got up and walked back to the security guard's cubicle. Charles was still sprawled out on the floor amidst a pool of spilled coffee, so Max manhandled the Negro into a chair. He had fed Charles enough Rohypnol to knock him out for the next eight hours or so. Charles would probably lose his job for the perceived negligence, but Max did not consider that his problem. He thoughtfully cleaned up the mess, and washed up the coffee cups. He microwaved a box of instant macaroni and cheese, and wolfed it down, before returning to his post.

The cracker was still going strong. It had recovered only two characters of the password, so Max amused himself by surfing through a variety of lurid websites. He freely downloaded all sorts of nonsense, ensuring that the ATO system administrator would find himself facing a disciplinary hearing if any of it was ever found. He even tweaked a few server configuration settings here and there, which would undoubtedly cause havoc in the morning when the ATO personnel came to work. Rubbing his hands together in evil glee, Max could not resist cackling dementedly.

He checked the cracker again, and found that four characters had been recovered. The answer seemed glaring obvious by now, and Max cursed inwardly at himself for missing the password. He shut down the cracker, went back to the log-in screen, and keyed in a password of '31337'. It was supposed to spell out 'elite' in the underground hacker slang. Evidently, the ATO system administrator fancied himself a man of some knowledge.

Not that it was going to be a lot of help. The password was accepted, and the system let Max in. A couple of keystrokes, and Max had downloaded the electronic 'roadmap' stored in the DNS server.

His job partially completed, Max sat back and examined the electronic 'roadmap' in greater detail. It was just a bunch of computer addresses, but to the trained eye, those numbers formed an accurate picture of the internal network. Max sorted out through the list, mentally making a note of the targets he needed to break into.

And there it was. The gateway to the ATO mainframe, where the Australian tax records would be stored. It was safely behind another firewall, not that it was going to prove too difficult to get through, since Max was already within the network.

The workstations along the way were Windows machines, all of which answered to a master server called the domain controller. The domain controller showed up clearly on the electronic 'roadmap', and Max immediately called upon Nmap and Nessus once again. The ATO system administrator was a bit behind in his duties, Max reflected, as he pored through the scan results. The Windows domain controller was wide open to an extremely well-publicized exploit over a year ago, known as the MSADC vulnerability.

This one would be easy to crack. Max pulled another tool from his bag of tricks, a refined set of exploit code collected into one massive program, called Metasploit. It was a penetration testing tool designed for easy use. Max simply entered his target, his desired exploit, and his desired outcome into Metasploit, and fired it off. He opened Netcat once again, and Metasploit happily gave him another reverse shell.

With a foothold in the all-important domain controller, Max needed to consolidate his position. He called up another tool in his arsenal, a program designed to steal the password file containing all the users passwords. It really was a bit of a dinosaur, the PwDump program, but the principles remained the same. Normally, PwDump insisted on authenticating the user, making sure that only a system administrator was running it. But since Max was executing PwDump from within a high-level reverse shell, the program assumed that Max really was a system administrator. A few minutes of churning away, and it ripped the password file clean out of the domain controller and handed it over to Max.

This was the tedious part. Max needed the ATO system administrator's password. This would be significantly more complex than all the previous passwords he had encountered before, so it was going to need some time. Max pumped the stolen password file into one of the best password crackers around, the venerable l0phtcrack program. L0phtcrack was marketed by a company called AtStake, but since it had been bought over by the conglomerate Symantec, l0phtcrack was no longer available on the commercial market.

An incredibly efficient password cracker, specifically engineered to deal with Windows passwords, l0phtcrack blazed through the password file. In five minutes flat, it had given Max a quarter of the passwords on the file. Another fifteen minutes, and Max had over a third of the ATO users' passwords, and enough to make an educated guess on the system administrator's password.

He chose to play safe, and let the cracker go for another hour or so. By the time Max stopped l0phtcrack, the program had cracked over half of the passwords and the first four characters of the system administrator's password.

That was a good deal of data to work on. Max pondered the recovered passwords a while, then decided on a few. Still retaining his illegal reverse shell, Max logged into the domain controller with what he suspected was the system administrator's password. It took a few tries, but eventually, his educated guesses paid off, and he got in.

No longer needing the reverse shell, Max closed it down. He returned to the nice, pretty Windows graphical user interface, and started browsing through the files. He still had to get past the firewall, into the ATO mainframe. Again, an educated guess was in order: the system administrator would probably have a dedicated workstation just for accessing the mainframe. Max needed to find that workstation.

The domain controller may have held a more accurate picture of the internal network, listing each and every possible workstation it commanded, but it did not tell Max what the function of each workstation was. It did not matter to Max, who still had more tricks up his sleeve.

On the domain controller, Max installed Cheops, a network mapper. It would sweep the network, and build up a graphical representation of workstations in relation to any servers it found. Again, it was an old program, but it proved the security adage that 'the more things change, the more things stay the same'.

Cheops did not disappoint. In forty-five minutes, it had mapped the internal network segment controlled by the domain controller. It was quite clear from the resultant map which workstations had links punching through the firewall. Cheops was unable to map the network beyond the firewall though, since it was obviously blocking any unauthorized traffic.

Easy enough. From the domain controller, Max logged into one of the identified workstations as the system administrator. The computer let him in quick enough, where Max found a terminal emulation program. This let the Windows-based computer talk to the mainframe, which, from the looks of it, was an IBM mid-range server. Probably an AS400, Max reflected.

This was where it got tricky. The AS400 was a much, much harder server to crack than Windows or Unix, largely due to the paucity of people willing to go after such an obscure product. But there were enough hackers out there with insatiable curiosities, and programs had been written to break into AS400 servers.

The system administrator's password was useless against the AS400. Max was going to need the password to the top dog of the AS400, the supremely powerful user account called QSECOFR. Making the problem worse was that the password to QSECOFR was typically split between two or more users, so that no single user could control the AS400 on a whim.

There was one thing working in his favour, though. Because Max was working through a terminal emulation program, connecting to the AS400 via the communications protocol Telnet, the AS400 could not lock him out after a failed number of log-in attempts. That meant that he was free to continue trying password after password, without fear that the AS400 would get cranky and stop him.

Well, then. Rummaging through his collection, Max hit on one that had been written experimentally just for this purpose. It was an AS400 password cracker, performing pretty much what l0phtcrack did, except that it was limited to hitting against passwords for a single account only.

The AS400 password cracker interfaced smoothly with the terminal emulation software, and started banging away. Unfortunately, this was likely to take a while, in all probability, a few days, even. Max started an organized withdrawal, detaching the cracker to run independently of supervision. Using an obscure feature of Windows, called alternate data streams, Max hid his password cracker.

Alternate data streams were literally parallel dimensions that co-existed peacefully alongside existing files. When they had first been discovered in the late 1990s, alternate data streams caused a huge amount of consternation. They were essentially invisible to every user, including the system administrator, and could be used to hide any sort of program or data. There was simply no way to detect an ADS.

Things got better circa the year 2000. Enterprising and concerned souls started working on ADS browsers, very much like how Windows Explorer was used to browse through files. The ADS browsers were refined over the years, and were now considerably more sophisticated than they were before. Not only could ADS now be detected, one could retrieve the programs or data stored within the ADS for closer examination.

Till this day, Windows originator Microsoft maintains that ADS were not a deliberate backdoor into their operating system, but rather, a poorly documented design feature.

Whatever the case, Max was quite happy with Microsoft. ADS were a convenient way of hiding his cracker from the supposedly '31337' system administrator. He was fairly certain that no ADS browsers were installed on the workstation, since user desktops tended to fall under the radar of most system administrators. Just to be sure, though, he ran through the installed programs on the workstation and verified that nothing even remotely similar to an ADS browser was available.

The next step was to wipe the audit trails. Every workstation had a log of what things were being done, at what times, and by whom. Since he did not want to be detected, Max reached out and disposed of those logs. There was fairly low risk that any unwanted intrusions would be picked up by somebody reviewing those logs, due to the sheer volume of the logs, but why take chances?

Continuing his retreat, Max systematically cleaned the audit trails of each machine he had compromised. Reaching the domain controller, he switched off its antivirus functions for a moment, then installed an oldie but goodie: the Sub-7 Trojan horse. Whenever he desired it, the Trojan horse would grant him full control over the domain controller. He just had to make sure that the antivirus program stayed shut off, since it would cry bloody murder if it was switched on and found that Sub-7 had been installed.

To hide his tracks, Max planted Sub-7 Trojan horses on a few more workstations, including the ATO webserver, mail server, and DNS server. To prevent somebody else from taking control of his Trojan horses, Max activated the password functions on Sub-7, entering a massive code phrase that only he knew. Such a long code phrase would defeat most password crackers, since the difficulty to break a password doubles with every characters added to the length of a password.

His work done, Max retreated back out of the ATO network entirely. He ejected his Knoppix boot disk from the CD-ROM drive tray, and shut down the workstation normally. In a day or so, he would check back in and see what his AS400 password cracker could come up with.

But for now, poor Charles was still unconscious. Another nefarious scheme began forming in Max's head. Why, Charles would not remember anything, would he? The situation was ripe for some blackmail. What would Charles do in order to keep his job?

Max exited the office. He closed and locked the door carefully behind him, noting that the first hints of dawn had started peeking out from behind the cover of night. Whistling cheerfully, he walked back to the security guard's cubicle, stopping once in dismay when he noted that some vandals had graffiti-ed a wall on the office block while he was busy.

Oh, well. That would magically turn out to be Charles' fault. Max shrugged and finished his walk back to the cubicle, and groaned. Charles had slumped out of the chair and was once more lying in a heap on the cold floor. The man weighed a ton, and Max could not bear to put him back into the chair. To make things worse, the Negro had lost bladder control under the influence of the drug and peed in his pants.

Huffing and puffing, Max rolled Charles around on his back, and started slapping him, trying to bring him back to consciousness. It would do nothing, of course, the Rohypnol ensuring that such paltry efforts would be useless. But the first workers, and their replacement security guards, would be arriving for their shift soon, and Max needed to be seen doing something constructive.

He heard the tread of booted feet soon enough.

"Hey, Charles!" Max shouted, barely hiding a smile. "Wake up! Wake up, you oaf! What are you doing, sleeping on the job?"


	18. A Memory Resurfaces

**Chapter 18: A memory resurfaces**

"Why are you telling us all this?" Dr. McNeilly asked Kalvar. Somebody had coined the phrase 'so ethereal a means of communication', referring to the Deltarian mindspeech, and it had stuck. The Deltarian become an Ethereal, although how could speech be ethereal completely escaped more than a few people.

Robed once more, but with his hood thrown back to expose the sunken eyes, cheeks and bony forehead, Kalvar steepled his long, elegant fingers together before 'answering'. "The _Tel' Istar _are not a uniform people. We are formed from five four major races: Deltarian, Balorian, Sastrian, Flauvian, and Gelorian. There are a few others, the Antiluvians, Krystilians, Zaurube, and so on.

"Uniting under the umbrella of the _Tel' Istar_ have brought have allowed each of the races to develop far more quickly than we would have on our own. Let me explain: the Antiluvians, for example, were a primitive hive-based society with scarcely any directional sentience. With the intervention of the _Tel' Istar_, specifically, the Genemasters, we gifted the Antiluvians with higher cerebral functions. While their lesser drones, the Chryssalids, as you call them, are still devoid of little more than the instinct to kill and reproduce, their progenitors, the Patriarchs, are capable of strategic thinking.

"Different races fill different roles in _Tel' Istar_ society. Most notably, the Sastrians fill the engineering strata, due to their inherent affinity for technology. The Genemasters are mostly Gelorians, since they have great talent for genetic engineering. The Balorians and the Deltarians hold almost equal positions: the former as _Tel' Istar_ warmasters, and the latter as the strategic, if civilian, heads.

"As with any society, not all _Tel' Istar_ think the same. Some, like the Lord Overseer Orvax, believe that the _Tel' Istar_ represent the pinnacle of technological evolution. We have, after all, re-written entire genomes like the Balorians. _Tel' Istar_ like Orvax strive to subjugate all life in the universe. For, after all, are not the _Tel' Istar_ like gods? Society calls these _Tel' Istar_ the Crusaders, for to them, the goal of making the _Tel' Istar_ the undisputed masters of the universe is a holy, sacred duty.

"Others, like our tiny bunch you see here, are known as Guardians. We, on the other hand, believe that the role of the _Tel' Istar_ is to help other, slower-developing civilizations achieve greatness. What greater duty can there be? To help care for and nurture the children of the universe, so that they may grow up to become responsible adults themselves. I believe you Earthlings would call this the 'mothering instinct'.

"The _Tel' Istar_ Guardians have quietly aided human civilization over the years. During the Dark Ages, for example, when the vast stores of priceless knowledge were due to be lost in the haze of the Black Death, we made the Arabic world the shining gem of knowledge: mathematics, art, science, and all those things. More recently, you may have seen examples of _Tel' Istar_ involvement without realizing it. Things like lava lamps, television, radio frequency, even English. Well, actually, Latin. It was easy enough to push the development of a more sophisticated language form from there, although it was a hotly-debated issue to push for English or French as the world language of commerce.

"But I digress. Humanity is now ready for the next step, which is why we revealed the bio-matrix to you. More importantly, the psi-node."

"What about it?"

"The psi-node is what lifts the _Tel' Istar_ above the masses. We are a psychic people, if artificially induced for some. The point is, Humanity has already exhibited signs of developing psychic potential. Yuri Geller, for example, with the ability to bend spoons. Or the ability to channel massive quantities of electricity without harm. But it is raw, unrefined. And if left evolve uncontrolled, it may lead to grief."

"So you propose implanting ordinary people with the psi-node?"

"Exactly. Think of what we could achieve! No longer would we have language barriers, if we spoke directly to each other's minds. No more misunderstandings. No more arguments. The world would become a more peaceful place."

"That's over-idealistic. What about people who abuse such ability? Wars would no longer simply be about annihilating the enemy. It would be about destroying their minds!"

"True. But any invention is subject to abuse. Dynamite, for instance. Did Alfred Nobel ever think what his dynamite might be put to? Similarly for the _Tel' Istar._ We can only introduce Earth to the technology. We cannot, will not, regulate its usage. What would we be then, but petty tyrants?"

"I'm not sure I agree with that, but I cannot argue with how useful the psi-node would be."

"Indeed."

"We shall most definitely have to debate the philosophy of psi-node usage later on. But for now, I would like to discuss what abilities psychic _Tel' Istar_ are capable of."

"Almost anything, for the power of the mind is unlimited. But with a caveat: not every psychic ability can be manifested, since it requires a great deal of willpower to shape mental energy and give it form. The great majority will not be able to do any more than the inherent limits of the psi-node. But a precious few … well, we shall see. Training will help, but training cannot progress beyond a certain point, as with all things in life.

"Returning to the topic at hand, _Tel' Istar_ psychics all manifest certain common powers. Only Gelorians and Deltarians are gifted enough for deployment on the combat field, and even then, most lack the power to manifest anything beyond one or two basic abilities.

"The most common ability, and by far the easiest to manifest, is to erode an enemy's morale. We bombard the foe with images of hopelessness, of defeat, of apathy. Eventually, the target collapses, his will to fight gone, or runs away in a panic.

"The other ability, which must be used in conjunction with a mind probe, is to discern which enemy soldiers fulfil what functions. Let me explain: in Earth military, you also field officers, commanders, and foot soldiers, yes? Each of these thinks in a different way. Augmented by a mind probe, a _Tel' Istar_ psionic can quickly identify key appointment holders. We then send in a strike team to remove the head from the foe. The body inevitably follows.

"And that is usually the extent of things. Other powers are exhaustingly difficult. Things like mind control, or telekinesis, or psi-shields, are manifested by only a tiny percentage of the _Tel' Istar_ population."

"Mind control? Telekinesis?"

"Yes. Mind control. Essentially, the psionic hijacks the bodily functions of the target. The target is perfectly aware of his surroundings, but cannot do anything."

"Catalepsy, artificially induced, of a sort. That's ghastly."

"Yes. Imagine being trapped in your own body. Literally. It is the worst thing possible, a terrible violation of a being's sanctity of his own body. I know of only three others who can perform this feat, two Deltarians, and a uniquely powerful Gelorian. Last I saw of Councillor Velfuvian, though, he was quite ill. I do not know if he survived."

"Let us hope that such a power remains rare. You also mentioned telekinesis. From Sergeant Ricardo's description of your first encounter, that was what you demonstrated?"

"Yes, I am a telekinetic." Kalvar 'said' that with some pride. "It is another extremely rare talent. But through rigorous training and discipline, I have honed it quite significantly. I can move practically anything I choose, but the bigger the mass of the object, or its velocity, the greater the effort I must expend."

"There were also reports from one … Captain Avery, that your ship was stopped from impacting full force with the one Sergeant Ricardo was trapped on?"

"Yes, that was my doing. What none of you saw was that I nearly died from the effort anyway. Only Byrak's and Tynovir's quick application of medical aid kept me alive long enough to save them all. I assure you, it is not an experience that I wish to repeat."

"And the plasma bolts that did not penetrate your ship's hull?"

"That was a psi-shield. Again, it requires plenty of effort. Not as much as stopping a moving object. In retrospect, it was probably a combination of those two efforts that nearly killed me."

"A psi-shield, you say?"

"'Shield' may be a bit of a misnomer. What I did was detonate the incoming plasma bolts prematurely. One cannot simply form a barrier of sorts out of nothing, it violates the Law of Conservation of Energy. But one can squeeze the medium through which the projectile is travelling, enough to cause an impact detonation."

"I see. But Byrak also said that without a psionic amplifier, it would not be possible to manifest any of these abilities you have just described. At least, it would not be possible for a non-psionic individual."

"True. But between us refugees, we know enough of the principle of building a psionic amplifier. Between us and your scientists, we might just be able to tip the odds, and give X-Com the edge in this war."

* * *

Wolf marvelled at how his pain had practically vanished with the implant of the bio-matrix. His body was as good as new. He stretched luxuriously, did a few waist-twists, then sprung through a few back-flips before landing solidly on his feet. No, better than new, Wolf decided. He felt rejuvenated, even after all the abuse his body had taken over the past few years.

Already, Drake, Monique, and Ivan had undergone the same implantation. From what he had heard, the implantation had just been as painful and degrading for them as it had been for him. Ah, well, they would get over it soon.

The Colonel was out running, on the island surface, by himself. After a month or so of forced inactivity, not to mention the grievous injuries he had sustained in Italy, Wolf was desperately trying to recover his former level of fitness.

He turned a corner and stopped dead in his tracks. A familiar sight was embedded in the sand.

His katana. Mariko's last gift to him.

It was sheathed, in the original lacquered scabbard. The ivory handle gleamed in the sunlight, newly polished.

Wolf's eyes narrowed. Was this some sort of trick? And to think, he had even come out here, alone, completely unarmed! He berated himself on his foolishness, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

Crouching down into a fighting stance, Wolf moved carefully toward the katana. His shoulder blades tingled, anticipating the rough tearing of a bullet or three. He listened intently, every sense coming alive in his body.

There was nothing but the cheerful chirping of birds, the harsh cry of seagulls, the eerie sounding of the jungle on his right, and the pounding surf on his left. That did not mean he was alone, though. As a former member of 13, Wolf had spent hours frozen in position, until the wildlife around him had grown accustomed to his presence and ignored him enough to resume. It masked his presence, enough for him to get off the perfect shot.

Well, he wrote the book on that. There was no way Wolf was going to fall prey to a technique he helped perfect.

Cautiously side-stepping, Wolf moved into the shadowy undergrowth. He chose each step carefully, deliberately, always mindful of potential traps. His eyes were alert, but kept loose to detect movement rather than hard objects; the human mind was more adept at registering motion anyway.

But Wolf reached the katana unopposed. There was no sign of intrusion, anywhere. Satisfied that the intruder had long gone, the Colonel nonetheless stooped silently and inspected the katana from not so far away.

It was exactly as he remembered it. The ivory carving of the dragon's head, the slight curve of the blade, even sheathed. He could smell the tang of the oil used to protect the blade, and it was familiar and even reassuring.

Wolf snapped out a hand and dislodged the katana from its position. Nothing exploded, nothing changed. He held the sheathed weapon and pondered it a moment. Was it a bit heavier than he remembered?

He drew the sword with a flourish. Yes, it was most definitely heavier than he remembered it. Wolf went through a few basic movements with the weapon, flowing from one stance to another in a kata. The difference in weight did not impair him in the least, but it would take some re-training to get used to things again.

The katana had been mended, flawlessly, perfectly. It was a brand new blade. Wolf could see the unique _ayasugi_ fabric of concentric grain lines, etched directly into the blade of the katana. He stared, disbelieving.

The katana had been re-forged by Gassan himself. Wolf would know the handiwork of the Gassan family anywhere. But Gassan and his forges were over a thousand kilometres away, in Japan. How had the blade gotten here? And to be in such superb condition, as if it had never been broken?

Wolf put aside the katana sheath and ran a thumb across the edge. As razor-sharp as before. He caressed the hilt oh-so-carefully, searching for the joining seams, but it was beautiful, a single piece of metal attached to the hilt without even the slightest hint to betray its construction.

What was this? His questing fingers had found something, slight bump just underneath the hilt guard. It appeared to have been designed into the guard itself. Were he not searching for defects, Wolf would have missed it.

It moved. A switch, then. But a switch for what?

Angling the blade carefully away from him, Wolf thumbed the switch.

And watched in amazement as the katana came alive in his hands.

The weapon shivered once, then settled in to a steady, but almost imperceptible, rhythm. The blade took on a similarly subtle, silvery sheen. It felt … lethal. It purred. It called to him.

Giving in to impulse, Wolf turned and slashed crosswise at an unoffending coconut tree. The blade cut through the trunk without pause, and the tree fell on its side with a resounding crash.

Wolf stared. There had been no resistance when the katana had cut through the trunk. He thumbed the blade off and raised it until it was barely inches from his face. There was no heat. He touched the katana with one hand, and found it smooth and cool, even cold.

Somebody had gone through a lot of trouble for him.

Reverently, Wolf sheathed the katana. That was when he saw the little Post-it glued to the scabbard. He pulled it off and read it.

"My present to you, old friend. In memory of all the good times we spent together. I'll be watching you. Now go kick some alien ass."

Wolf recognized the handwriting. He knew who it was now. He knew how they had done it. More importantly, he knew why. For some reason, he was glad. It was long past time to tie up loose ends.

The Colonel turned to face out to sea and saluted smartly with the katana. "I'll be waiting."

His lips curled into a snarl. "Old friend."


	19. Tel' Istar Vs Devourer

**Chapter 19: _Tel' Istar_ versus Devourer**

"'ere, now," Mark Walsh remarked to his fellows, pointing at his copy of the world-famous tabloid, the Sun. "Says that some chap right here in Dover saw a monster in his garden."

Paul Miller snorted. "Everybody's been seeing monsters since London, since a month ago. Rotten business, that was."

"Ain't it so," nodded the bartender, Simon. He knew these two well, Mark and Paul, crewmen aboard the _SpeedOne_. The vessel plied the English Channel, moving passengers between the French Coast and Dover. Mark and Paul had families, and usually drew the first shift. They had spent many an evening in the _Arlington_, drinking the rich, imported Irish brews or the local poisons.

Mark and Paul had been with their firm, Speed Ferries, for over ten years. The company was being squeezed by the international big boys, and it would be a sad day, indeed, if Speed Ferries did close down. Simon could see the fear in these men, afraid that one day, they would come to work, and be told that their livelihoods no longer existed. They were too old to learn a new trade, to know any other life.

How would their families take it? Paul would be alright, though, Simon was sure. The man was canny, and had put his two sons through university. Last Simon had heard, young Adrian had landed a fairly well paying job with one of the big four accounting firms, either KPMG or PricewaterhouseCoopers.

Excusing himself, and calling for one of his girls to look after the bar while he went out for a smoke, Simon tossed aside his bar rag and walked outside. It was a quiet night, it always was during the weekdays. Weekends, especially Friday, were his big nights. That was when the crowd heading over to Europe proper showed up, often with their cars, to take the ferries across the English Channel to France.

Originally a coal-mining town from 1890 onwards, Dover held a position of great strategic importance during the two world wars. The town took its name from the stream which ran through it, called the Dour; its original Celtic name was _dubräs_, meaning 'the waters'. It was only thirty-four kilometres to the Cap Gris Nez, a cape on the Côte d'Opale, in the Pas-de-Calais _départment_, in Northern France. This allowed huge numbers of men to cross from England to France.

Dover harbour was then home to the Dover Patrol, a varied collection of warships and fishing vessels which protected Britain's vital control of the channel. The first bomb to be dropped on England in WWI fell near Dover Castle on Christmas Eve, in 1914.

Regular shelling from warships and bombing from aeroplane and zeppelin forced Dover residents to shelter in caves and dug-outs during the war. The town became known as 'Fortress Dover', a far cry from the modern, industrialized hub it was today.

During WWII, Dover retained its position as a town of considerable military importance. In May 1940, over 200,000 of the 338,000 men evacuated from Dunkirk passed through Dover, filling the town and railway station with soldiers, sailors and airmen. Vice Admiral Sir Bertram Ramsay controlled the evacuation from his headquarters in tunnels beneath Dover Castle.

Shells and bombs falling on Dover in WWII killed 216 civilians. Over 10,000 premises were damaged and had to be demolished. By the end of the war, Dover had become a symbol for Britain's wartime bravery, the centre of East Kent's 'Hellfire Corner'.

Today, Dover was a major port, home to many different international and national companies. At least three big companies fought for a slice of the ferry operator pie, shuttling passengers across the English Channel. P&O had offices in Dover, as did the Norfolk Line, and local player Speed Ferries.

Simon's pub was a small affair on Snargate Street, right next to the A20 road. Across from the pub was Wellington Dock, and the Esplanade. Further along that was the Hoverport, the Prince Of Wales Pier. It was well-placed, a comfortable stroll down to the cruise ship terminals, and brought in enough for Simon to live in relative luxury.

He was a true career man, eschewing marriage and family. Simon lived to work, for it brought him immeasurable joy. He was considered a good man by those who knew him, with respect for his elders and kindness in his heart for those less fortunate than himself, unlike the youth of today. Lackadaisical bunch of yobs, all of them.

Simon walked down the pier, a few meters farther than from Hoverport, to the Dover Cruise Terminal One, watching the lights of the docks. There was one of those ferries berthed now, the crew prepping her for another trip across the Channel. He loved the salty tang of the air, and hustle and bustle of the port. It was mid-autumn, but the air was unseasonably warm, and Simon could easily get by with just a light jacket.

What was the bloody world coming to? Simon thought as he lit up. Aliens? Monsters? And now shadowy government agencies? What the heck did X-Com stand for, anyway? For that matter, what was that smell?

Some tiny remnant of the primitive brain, always alert to danger, made Simon pause in his tracks. His body screamed to remember long forgotten evolutionary instincts …

Something reared out of the water, and latched massive claws on to the pier, gouging huge chunks out of the concrete. It was a wonder the structure did not collapse and plunge Simon into the icy water. Whatever it was, it was big, bulky, and black. Something that might have been half a jaw distended and the foetid stench of carrion wafted out to encompass the stunned man.

Right before the jaws snapped shut on him, Simon realized that he had forgotten to close the pub's door on his way out.

_That's going to let in a draft_ was his last thought.

* * *

Kuhirst formed a fist and waved his squad forward, cradling his bulky plasma rifle in one muscled arm. As his fire team fanned out in precise formation, the mindlink echoed with situation updates filtering in from the various other fire teams that had been deployed to curb this Devourer incursion.

Good old Orvax, Kuhirst reflected. Only that Balorian had enough guts to do what was necessary. Look what he had made – perfected a mindlink completely impervious to any interference. And as any commander knows, wars depend largely on unbroken communications links.

Directing his thoughts back to the present, the Sastrian slithered forward through the rocky ground. The sharp stones failed to cause him any discomfort, thanks to his thick hide. The Antiluvian vanguard had already gone in, and last he had heard, their Patriarch had been rather unhappy that the traditional Antiluvian method of turning the enemy into hosts for new larvae was simply not working. Apparently, the Ancient Foe were no longer fully organic enough for this terror tactic to work. Even worse, the Ancient Foe had no concept of terror to begin with.

The acquirer chirped at him, a sound audible only to him since it the signal was pumped directly into his brain. Targeting crosshairs came alive in his vision as his soldering instincts took over. They had found the enemy.

There were ten of them, a full squad of the Devourer foe. Brandishing lightning staffs and shard guns, they were in the process of harvesting some civilians who had been caught out in the open. Their cries were pitiful and heart-wrenching.

This had to stop. If it did not, the Devourer ranks would soon be swelled with new converts.

Kuhirst sighted carefully along his plasma rifle, allowing his acquirer to illuminate the target. Yes, a single, well-placed antimatter smart-round might very well take the enemy apart. Gmolniyr was carrying the squad smart-round launcher, along with four reloads. The things were heavy, after all, even for a Sastrian.

The mindlink opened, and Kuhirst issued his orders. Gmolniyr would need an unobstructed view so that he could interface the smart-round with his acquirer, programming it to fly around obstacles. The others would need to lay down covering fire. If they were lucky, their Flauvian sniper, Dahsanker, might even be able to take out one or two Devourers before the smart-round hit. They had to take out the enemy squad before other Devourers were alerted to the fight.

It was all fine and well in principle, but as more than one commander had found out, no plan ever survives contact with the enemy.

Kuhirst never found out who, but apparently, one of his squad had not concealed himself well enough. One of the civilians saw someone, or something, and realized that friendly soldiers were nearby. He gaped, then started shouting and waving as if his life depended on it.

Alerted, the enemy spun around and unleashed jagged streaks of brilliant lightning and hails of poisoned crystal shards. Dursting, the squad medic, took a face full of toxic projectiles and collapsed, the neurotoxin ravaging his body so quickly, he did not even have time to scream.

Floating high up, Dahsanker made a perfect head shot. Twin bursts of green fire evaporated the head of one of the foe, sending his body tumbling to the ground. Kuhirst shuddered as two of the enemy immediately disengaged and threw themselves on the charred remains, absorbing and assimilating it.

Joining his fire with that of his squad, Kuhirst managed to down another Devourer, punching molten holes in its body. It shrank as it cannibalized its remaining body mass to heal the injury, re-absorbing its shard gun arm to conserve mass and energy. Its lightning staff blazed again, and again, but each discharge was noticeably weaker as it lost the ability to power the weapon.

At last, Gmolniyr got his act together. The smart-round belched forth from its launcher, shrieking as it cut through the thin atmosphere. Turning two corners, it slammed into the reinforced pavement right at the feet of the Devourers. The impact detonated the antimatter warhead, and a massive ball of flame engulfed both the enemy and civilians.

_At least their end was quick_, Kuhirst thought to himself.

The fireball died down, leaving nothing but a crater in the ground.

_Tactical assistance requested. Sector 4, co-ordinates 29-31-01._ The mindlink squawked at Kuhirst.

_Acknowledged. Moving to reinforce._ Kuhirst opened the mindlink to his squad. _Move out!_

* * *

The slaughter was frightful. The debris of countless craft littered the space around Calxius IV. While Kuhirst and his comrades battled the Devourer down on the planet surface, Lykor fought in the space arena. The tiny Gelorian had distinguished himself on many occasions previously, and now had command of his own battleship, the _Underdog_.

The Devourer ships were powerful, but slow. The _Tel' Istar_ had the advantage in speed, but that was all the advantage they held. Lykor had his crew turn the _Underdog_ on an axis, presenting an undamaged profile to the enemy frigate they were fighting. The omnidirectional plasma foci converged rapidly dissipating plasma into a devastating lance, and punched that into the enemy frigate. Leaking atmosphere, she rolled like a beached whale, but replied with a barrage of lightning bolts, nonetheless.

The _Underdog_ twisted sharply, narrowly missing the barrage. Lykor righted his ship and came in with another plasma lance, this time searing two Tesla cannon that were jutting out from the enemy hull. One Tesla cannon collapsed limply, the other blew itself apart as the weapon discharged just as the plasma was eating through its charging coils.

Victorious, the _Underdog_ turned away, as one of the big _Starfire_-class battlecruisers moved in for the kill. Its mass accelerators threw refrigerator-sized chunks of Elerium-nickel alloy at almost the speed of light. The enemy frigate came apart under the bombardment, but the battlecruiser commander was not satisfied. The plasma pulsars came alive and fried the remains of the Devourer ship until there was nothing left but a blackened husk.

It was the first substantial victory the _Tel' Istar_ had made against the enemy hordes. And it was all thanks to Orvax's psionic brain, which everyone quaintly called Mother. Mother replaced the psi-nodes and psi-repeaters used in _Tel' Istar _interstellar communications with a single, super-fast psionic network. Every _Tel' Istar_ with a psi-node was automatically plugged into the Mother network, transmitting and receiving orders with the speed of thought.

The result was that the _Tel' Istar_ military began functioning like a single organism. Responses to enemy incursions were instantaneous. While still limited by the physics of travel, the _Tel' Istar_ now had a greater sense of what was going on. Mother could, and did, censor information on a need-to-know basis, but on the whole, things were moving along a lot more smoothly.

Without an equivalent means of communication, the enemy was outflanked and outgunned where the _Tel' Istar_ could bring enough resources to bear. Sacrifices were made, planets given over to the enemy because they were not strategically significant. But this was war, and Orvax was determined not to let the accursed Ancient Foe win.

The Lord Overseer was currently ensconced in his battlehelm, a perfectly spherical chamber that plugged directly into the Mother network, allowing Orvax access to any military information flowing to and from battles in real-time. He was looking at the defense of Calxius IV, seeing how skilfully the _Underdog_ took apart the enemy frigate's primary defense towers, allowing a battlecruiser to close in and destroy the enemy ship with minimal exposure. With but a thought, Orvax switched to listening and viewing the ground battle, where Kuhirst had taken out the enemy Devourer squad and was moving to reinforce another _Tel' Istar_ platoon.

Orvax tuned in on one of the ground force commanders. It appeared that at one of the sites of conflict, the Devourers had converted enough _Tel' Istar_ to begin morphing into an advanced battle form. The configuration become obvious quickly enough, showing a four meter tall organic nightmare trotting about on a base with four angled, bone and metal spurs. Mother identified the alien monster as a Devourer Preacher, a heavy weapons morph variant.

Orvax watched with detached interest as the Preacher finished morphing, ignoring plasma burns and even two smart-rounds. Around it scurried the basic Devourer grunt, codenamed Devout by Mother, dwarfed by the immense creature. The Preacher unfolded five arms from its upper body, and started blazing away. It fired globs of corrosive organic acid alongside the now-familiar toxic crystal shards and brilliant lightning bolts.

The Lord Overseer overrode the force commander as he was about to speak. "Dreadnaughts, forward," Orvax ordered.

_Tel' Istar_ tanks, the blocky, bipedal dreadnaughts clocked in at three meters in height, and three meters across. Reverse-angled knee joints and massive, flanged feet supported a heavily armoured body. Foremost was the reflective canopy mounted in front of the main torso, which held the pilot, encased in impact gel. Powerful servos driven by a man-sized graviton plant provided propulsion, pushing the dreadnaughts to their target at speeds of over a hundred kilometres an hour.

There were three of the lumbering beasts, an awesome sight. The very ground shook as the dreadnaughts pounded their way to the Devourer Preacher. Weapons cycled and locked as they achieved line of sight.

Christened _Dark Flame_, the first dreadnaught was armed with plasma burners in a quad configuration. Mounted underneath and to the side of the pilot cushion, the plasma burners ate through their Elerium ammunition at a frightening rate, spitting out bursts of emerald death so quickly they looked like a continuous stream. The Devout clustered around the Preacher vanished in a storm of fiery green.

That caught the attention of the Preacher. The Devourer hawked and spat a ball of glowing pink goo at the dreadnaughts. It caught the second dreadnaught on one side, hissing as it ate its way through the alloy armour plates. The huge construct staggered under the onslaught, then erupted in an explosion as the Preacher riddled it with crystal projectiles.

The last dreadnaught, _Scarred Angel_, carried another one of Orvax's experiments: a graviton gun. It was an extension of the gravitic engines used to propel the _Tel' Istar_ starships about. The gun worked by focusing on a target and increasing its gravity 'density' a hundred fold. This would cause the target to implode upon itself, simultaneously drawing everything into its centre of gravity for ten meters around.

It was a wicked weapon, but it was awfully short-ranged. _Scarred Angel_ made for the Preacher with all the speed it could muster, as _Dark Flame_ hung back a ways and pelted the Devourer with plasma bolts. The huge monstrosity returned fire with acid and lightning, and peppered the _Tel' Istar_ supporting infantry with its shard guns.

_Scarred Angel _got in range and unleashed the graviton gun. The Devourer shimmered as the artificial gravity field took hold, and the beast folded in upon itself. Meat popped and sizzled as the Preacher tried to right itself, its arms and legs and weapons collapsing back into its centre of mass. Plasma bolts caught in the field veered unerringly into the heart of the Preacher, detonating normally with each hit, although the blossoms of flame rapidly curled backwards instead of exploding outwards.

There was a creak, and the Preacher seemed to sigh before falling limply in a heap. _Scarred Angel_ had maintained the blast for less than three seconds, but the graviton gun had drained its Elerium power core, and the dreadnaught staggered for another few steps before pitching forward, flat on its face and unable to move. _Dark Flame_ moved to stand protectively over its helpless brother, pumping the remainder of its Elerium ammunition drums into the motionless Preacher.

A significant victory. A chorus of cheers came in over the mindlink, the _Tel' Istar_ troopers jubilant at downing the Preacher. Orvax allowed himself one cruel grin before broadcasting to them all. _Enough. That was one battle. We still have a planet to win back. _

Once more, the _Tel' Istar_ war machine began grinding forwards to the enemy.


	20. Airborne Recon

**Chapter 20: Skyborne recon**

There were twenty of them, a considerable force for just a reconnaissance arm. The team was split into four teams of five troopers, each headed by a commando, heavily armed and armoured. No light penetrated to this depth, but that did not impede them. After all, their eyes were secondary organs. Very much like fish, they felt their environment rather than seeing them.

The cold ocean currents, with its unpredictable tides and eddies, did not hamper them. Even after so long spent in stasis, they knew how to navigate the treacherous flows. It had been engineered into every cell in their bodies. Hyper-efficient gills leeched oxygen from the salt water, allowing custom-built mitochondria to respire and provide energy to move webbed feet and hands.

Their weapons were held in special groin pouches. They had no sexual organs to speak of, the area having been specially designed to accommodate the bulky cannon in a sac to minimize drag during movement. Some had additional close-combat weapons fitted into similar organic sheaths on their forearms.

The surrounding ocean brightened as the troupe moved increasing upwards, toward the bright sun. Optical membranes automatically darkened, compensating for the illumination. It would be another two days or so, moving along the transoceanic currents, hugging the seafloor in shallower waters to avoid detection. Without the benefit of mechanized transport, the going was slow and hard, but the team was driven forward by the subconscious orders implanted by their master.

Only two days more. Every team member salivated in anticipation. After so long, after so very long, their existence had meaning once more.

* * *

"Good morning, Franz," the current Chancellor of Austria greeted his personal aide as he strode into his office. The morning was cold and miserable, a constant drizzle pelting down the streets of Vienna. The Chancellor wanted nothing more than to stay in bed, with his wife, but duties of state called. There was already a stack of paperwork on his desk, and the ever-efficient Franz already had his PDA out, ready to give the Chancellor his itinerary for the day.

Stifling a groan, the Chancellor sank down into his office chair. He beckoned Franz over to him and motioned for him to start the briefing.

Franz saluted, then glanced at his PDA to begin. A puzzled frown crossed his face as he saw the first entry. The Chancellor caught the look at once.

"What is it, Franz?"

"Sir. Your first appointment of the day … it is with …"

"Me."

The doors to the office flew open, admitting a skinny, almost waif-like man. He had strangely piercing black eyes, and a forehead that was a bit too large for the rest of his body. The man let the doors slam shut behind him, and sat down uninvited in one of the plush chairs in the office. There was no sign of the Chancellor's bodyguard.

"And who are you?" The Chancellor asked, annoyed.

The man just looked askance at Franz. The Chancellor's aide looked uncomfortable for a moment, then shrugged and read from his PDA.

"Karl Von Liechenstein, sanctioned representative of … the … _Tel' Istar_ … galactic empire …" Franz's voice trailed off in shock and disbelief.

"Yes. And a good morning to you all."

The pair gaped at Karl, still stunned. The man sighed and gestured with one elegant hand. "Yes, I am from the … aliens." He said the word with some distaste.

"But … you are human!" The Chancellor blurted out.

"Hardly." Karl sniffed. "I am nothing like you bunch of sheep. I am from a higher order, a higher authority, but I am here to negotiate terms of peace with you, nonetheless."

This, at least, was something the Chancellor could understand. "Why? We conclusively defeated you at London."

"London was a single task force. A single task force that laid waste to one of Humanity's capital cities. And we could do the same to every, single city on Earth. In fact, we would not even need a task force. We could simply reduce your cities to rubble from orbit. I am referring to tactical orbital bombardment, in case you simply do not understand."

The Chancellor reeled. Orbital bombardment? Reducing cities to slag? Was what this mad-man talking about true? Or was he simply bluffing? A look at Franz decided it for him. This person was real. How else could the entry have appeared on his personal itinerary for the day?

"Then why are you here?" The Chancellor asked, clawing for time.

"Simply this. We of the _Tel' Istar_ understand that peace is better for all. What would war with Earth bring? Atomizing life on this planet back a few million years? Where is the point in that? What would we gain? What would you gain? Nothing.

"It is never to anyone's advantage to resort to violence. We regret that at least some semblance of aggression was necessary, to show you what we are capable of, but now that you have seen the might of the _Tel' Istar_ military, no more hostilities are necessary.

"But I digress. We do not wish to prosecute this war against Earth. It is a needless waste of resources for either side. You do not wish annihilation. The _Tel' Istar_ most certainly do not wish to rule over a dead planet. But if we were to integrate our cultures together …

"Think of the advantages, man! Access to technology beyond your wildest dreams. Imagine the disposal of the limitless wealth of the _Tel' Istar_ as part of your treasury. What would you be able to do with that? Rebuild your hospital infrastructure? Keep education free? The possibilities are endless.

"The _Tel' Istar_ stand to gain, too. Earth is rich. It is a melting pot of many cultures. We would gladly learn of those cultures, sift the good from the bad, and integrate it into our own. Because of your short lifespans, humans are among the most creative of the races in the galaxies. We would welcome that creativity with open arms. Indeed, we would rush to embrace you.

"Give it some thought. The _Tel' Istar_ are not a single, uniform race. We are formed from five primary races. Humanity could be the sixth. And each and every one of these races has benefited from an alliance with the _Tel' Istar_. With the help of the Gelorians, for instance, the _Tel' Istar_ have helped eliminate disease from the Balorians. Turn this to the Earth context: we could help engineer a cure for cancer, for AIDS. It is not beyond the capability of our genetic engineers."

The Chancellor could scarcely believe what he was hearing. "I need to think on this, Herr Karl."

"Certainly. But do keep an eye on your television, Herr Chancellor. Something very interesting will happen today. Within the next three hours, in fact. Call it … a final show of our goodwill. Or ill-will, however you choose to see it.

"I will call upon you in another fortnight. I trust you will have an answer for me then?"

"I shall try." The Chancellor managed. "I must consult with the cabinet, and so on, you know politics."

"Indeed I do. Nor would I expect you to make such a momentous decision without the help of your capable advisors. Until then, I bid you _adieu_."

Karl Von Liechenstein stood up smoothly, and walked out of the Chancellor's office.

Standing forgotten to one side, Franz looked uncertainly at the Chancellor. "Sir?"

The Chancellor was lost in thought. Franz's voice brought him back to the present, where he visibly made a decision. "Get me a secure line to X-Com," the Chancellor ordered.

* * *

CINXCOM was briefing the X-Com combat teams on what had transpired in Austria when the alarms went off. As the teams went sprinting off to the armoury for combat-prep, a rejuvenated Colonel Wolf made straight for C&C.

Along the way, though, he ran smack into Tynovir and Byrak. "What are you doing out here?" Wolf blurted out, surprised.

The two looked at each other and shrugged. "You cannot expect us to stay in the cells all the time," Tynovir said. "We require exercise and training to maintain our combat readiness, too."

"We have been doing this for a while now," Byrak added.

"And no-one thought to say anything about this to me?" Wolf shook his head, not knowing to be horrified or amused at the lapse in security.

"We … well, we said you authorised it," Byrak grinned. It did not look very reassuring. "Social engineering."

"Enough." Wolf resolved to have some words with the other personnel on the base later. "As you can probably tell, we have a developing situation."

"What is it?"

"Your friends are coming to get you, I think."

"We have no friends out there," Tynovir spat, surprising Wolf. "If any of the Crusaders get in here, they will actively seek to terminate us."

There was no more time to argue about that. Wolf beckoned them to move along with him, and the trio entered C&C shortly.

* * *

Kark's duty officer had taken his orders to heart, sending not just four _Starflight_-class scoutships, but also one of the big _Seer_-class science vessels. The ship was an ungainly regular octagon, and possessed woefully inadequate power for something its size, but she made up for it with the most sophisticated scanners and sensors the _Tel' Istar_ could pack into a space-faring vessel.

She had been christened _Ark of Knowledge_, and her commander was the Flauvian Gythe. Gythe had a staff of eight scientists under him, along with four security personnel, and a combat supervisor. They had all undergone the rudiments of combat, but ultimately, Gythe was no soldier, and did not appreciate being called away from his studies and experiments to lend a hand in what was essentially a combat mission. Gythe was more than happy to hand over control to his combat supervisor.

Their target was simple: scan a two hundred kilometre stretch of the Pacific Ocean on Earth. Gythe did not pretend to understand why this was required of him and his crew, but orders were orders. Gythe understood orders, and so did his duty.

Unlike the tiny one-man scoutship Malius piloted, the _Ark of Knowledge_ was armed with far more powerful sensors. Unhampered by the thick, toxic Earth atmosphere, the science vessel slid smoothly into orbit over their entry zone and started a controlled descent. Five hundred kilometres would bring the _Ark_ into sensor range, and Gythe would hit the target area with active and passive scanners. Any abnormality would show up like a black spot on a sheet of clean, white paper.

* * *

Wolf stalked into C&C, with Tynovir and Byrak trailing along behind him. Amidst startled stares, Wolf singled out Andreas and growled, "We need to talk about base security. Again."

The base security chief was quickly forgotten as Wolf turned his attention to the on-screen radar display. Five unmistakable bogies were inbound. The Colonel grabbed a spare headset and opened a channel to the Area 51 base, where the base commander was actively monitoring situation, and had already scrambled the intercept team.

"Launch." Wolf ordered.

The air intercept team was stabled at Base Area 51. Their planes were kept 'hot' at Area 51. That meant that they were maintained in a continuous ready state: fuelled, armed, and generally loaded for bear. The entire squadron was capable of launching in three minutes flat, and that included wheeling their birds out to the runway.

The wing commander was Colonel Henry McGuigan, from the United States Air Force. Formerly part of the of the United States Army, the USAF was formed as a separate branch of the military on September 18, 1947. As one might expect, the USAF was the largest modern air force in the world, with over 9,000 aircraft in service and about 352,000 men and women on active duty.

The USAF was also the most technologically advanced military air power. That impeccable record was maintained now, as the intercept team's F-16s were armed with an eclectic mix of conventional missiles, laser cannon, and a single, newly-installed plasma beam.

The honour of carrying the plasma beam into battle fell not to Colonel McGuigan, but to Captain Isaac Kwan. Formerly from the 8th Fighter Wing, outstationed at Kunsan Air Base in Korea, Isaac was a veritable genius in the F-16. And like all geniuses, Isaac came complete with one peculiar idiosyncrasy: he very much preferred the F-16's M61 Vulcan 20mm Gatling gun, instead of any high-tech missile.

The Vulcan had been the principal cannon armament of US military aircraft for fifty years now, and was essentially a barrel assembly of six barrels rotated by an electric motor. It was capable of firing 6,000 rounds per minute, and its multiple barrels helped contribute to long weapon life by minimizing barrel erosion and heat generation. The mean time between jams or failures was over 10,000 rounds, making the Vulcan a most reliable weapon.

While an F-16's targeting computer tried its very best to aid the pilot in hitting its target with the Vulcan, it still took plenty of skill to lead a target, and pepper it with enough PGU-28 ammunition to destroy it. The PGU-28 was a relatively recent development, first introduced in 1988. It was a low-drag round designed to increase muzzle velocity, and was classified as a semi armour-piercing high-explosive incendiary round, providing substantial improvements in range, accuracy, and power over its predecessor, the M-56A3 high-explosive incendiary round.

The PGU-28 was not without its problems. A USAF safety report in 2000 noted that the SAPHEI rounds had experienced twenty-four pre-mature detonation mishaps in twelve years, causing serious damage in many cases. Compared against the M-56A3 experiencing only two such mishaps in its entire history, the PGU-28 seemed like an unnecessary, deadly hazard. In fact, the current PGU-28/B round was estimated to have a potential failure rate eighty times higher than USAF standards would permit.

Isaac did not care. He loved the Vulcan. He loved how a light touch on the trigger made the cannon assembly whir to life, generating such an intense vibration that it could be felt from within the cockpit. He loved the brilliant tracer streams that sliced through the air and into a target.

But most of all, Isaac loved how a perforated target smoked and sizzled and died a slow death. He liked to think that such a kill gave the enemy pilot time enough to hit the eject button, thereby saving a life.

So Isaac got the plasma beam, where he would have to track the target almost by eye, since the electronics could not quite integrate seamlessly with the alien weapon. He had been told that it would fire up to eighty kilometres away, but Isaac largely ignored that. In the heat of combat, it was better to rely on one's own eyesight and judgement.

The radar pinged the incoming UFOs at different vectors. The foe was splitting up to cover greater ground, but still within range for each individual bogey to provide fire support for each other. Colonel McGuigan designated targets, and the crew broke up to deal with the incursion.

UFO number one came up on radar, twenty miles off. It was one of the familiar X-shaped bogies, the ones that X-Com knew had minimal armour for a UFO. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, Colonel McGuigan cheated, and launched a pair of AIM-120 AMRAAMS as they closed with the target, from well over fifteen miles away. The radar contact flashed once and vanished as the high explosive warheads made short work of the UFO, despite evasive manoeuvres from the foe.

That used up all their luck for the battle. The remaining UFOs snapped into formation, coming in at the intercept team from impossible vectors. Plasma blazed, and two F-16s flamed and spun out of the air. Two of the enemy pulled up short from their attack run, turning to face Captain Jason Elson's flight, veering in from their left.

"Break! Break!" The Australian combat pilot shouted into his transceiver, as the missile lock tone warning started sounding. Taking his own advice, Jason yanked the control yoke left and right, jinking his craft madly in random patterns. Plasma burned through the thick Earth atmosphere, emerald beams that just missed Elston but cut one of his wingmen to shreds. His other wingman ripped a hasty turn left, unleashing a short burst of suppression fire from its Vulcan cannon. Undeterred, the UFOs ignored the cannon fire and oriented on Elston.

"Somebody get these … things off my back!" Jason screamed into the radio, banking right and climbing with all the available power his F-16 could muster. Brilliant plasma scorched the sky as the UFOs opened up once more.

By that time, Isaac Kwan was close enough. His targeting computer plotted trajectories, wind speeds …

"Ah, what the fuck," Isaac swore. The UFOs were not built like their F-16s, they were capable of pulling insane moves that no aerofighter could match. He lined up a shot as best as he could, and pulled hard on the trigger. Still reliant on Q-switches to actually toggle the alien interface, there was a two second delay before the plasma beam actually discharged.

Unfortunately, in the world of dogfighting, two seconds was an eternity. Two seconds was plenty of time for a well-trained pilot to assess and react to any incoming threats. The delay was far too long for even an experienced pilot like Isaac to lead his target, and the alien pilot was no dunce. Isaac's chosen target spun smartly away long before the switches activated enough to fire the plasma beam.

Isaac screamed maniacally. He did not care who heard him. He simply knew that the firing delay had cost him a bogey. His flight screeched past the UFOs at speed, at least breaking off their pursuit of Captain Elston.

Grumbling under his breath, Isaac pulled his control yoke and went after his targets again. He was a professional. He would not make the same mistake twice.

The alien pilots were good. But not good enough, especially when Jason and his remaining wingman recovered sufficiently to get back into the fight. Boxed in with cannon fire, Isaac's wingmen launched four Sidewinders at the same target, and another UFO disintegrated. The last UFO was buffeted by the massive explosion, its pilot failing to compensate for the rocking motion but still opting to fire wildly anyway. The shots hit nothing but air, and the two flights came together in a beautiful pincer movement, a combination of missile and cannon fire shredding the UFO.

On the other side of the airborne battlefield, Colonel McGuigan was having a bit of a tougher time. Hastily launched Sidewinders had damaged one UFO, but it still hung around to lob plasma bolts in support of its larger cousin. And it was the larger beast that had McGuigan worried.

It was painfully obvious to the Colonel that the smaller monster was merely running interference for its wingman. The bigger vessel had hardly fired its weapons, focusing instead of zooming straight for the island chain where McGuigan knew Base Avalon was. It was hardly rocket science to deduce what its real target was.

First things first, though. That pesky fly had to go before they could try smoking its big brother.

Issuing curt orders to Isaac and Jason to go after the bigger UFO, McGuigan turned his attention to neutralize that damned …

"Mayday! Mayday!" The radio cracked to panicked life as a lucky shot took out one of his wingmen. McGuigan growled irritatedly, blocking out his rising worry at another good man lost. Focusing, he took careful aim and fired off his remaining Sidewinders. Moments later, his remaining wingman also let loose with a Sidewinder salvo.

The UFO shattered under the assault, fragmenting spectacularly in a fiery explosion. McGuigan spotted Isaac and Jason flying in hot pursuit of the bigger UFO through the debris cloud. Toggling afterburners, he joined the chase.

* * *

Franz strode unhurriedly down the steps of Parliament. Located on Dr. Karl Renner's Avenue, in the heart of the city of Vienna, it was named after Austria's first Chancellor. Dr. Karl Renner was named Chancellor at the establishment of the Austria republic in 1918. The building itself was old, constructed from 1873 to 1883 by Theophil von Hausen, the same man who authored the famous Athenebrunnen fountain that currently stood in front of Parliament.

He paused a moment to admire it. The monumental fountain held a marble statue of the goddess Pallas Athena, goddess of Wisdom, towering over five meters in height. Surrounding the goddess were six allegorical figures: flanking her were the statues of Law and Legislation. At her feet lay the statues representing the rivers Inn and Danube, as well as the rivers Elbe and Moldau. The statues were formed of marble from Laas, the superstructure and basin fashioned from granite.

On either side of the fountain were steel flagstaffs rising full thirty meters into the air. The Austrian red-white-red colours were flying from the flagstaffs, indicating that the National Council was in session. _How futile, how fragile, is Humanity_, Franz thought to himself. _And yet, filled with such strength of purpose, such resilience. _

It would be most enjoyable grinding Humanity under the heels of the _Tel' Istar_.

Franz grinned wickedly as he lifted a hand and gently touched behind his left ear. He exerted his will, and his mindlink came to life, plugging him into the _Tel' Istar_'s Mother network.

_You may begin when ready_.

_It shall be done._ Xenothane rumbled in reply.


End file.
